


Fakes and Forgeries

by Solimette, WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Art Forgery, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hand Jobs, Multi, Oh the drama, So ignore that, a budding ineffable bureaucracy pokes its head up too, art conservator, artist restorator, how do I warn people this is mostly just to be cute, jock straps are silly, please forgive our attempts at explaining art forgery I guess, smut also, tags will update, they just need a moment to get there, we did some research except that got in the way of kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:38:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 121,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solimette/pseuds/Solimette, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Aziraphale, a very competent art conservator who specializes in oil paintings, spots a fake van Dyck at Michael's gallery. He is hired by interpol officer Gabriel to hunt down this forger, who had duped wealthy folks out of millions for recreations of van Dyck and Rubens paintings. They team up with Anthony Crowley, who has worked the circuit selling paintings and might have a clue on who is forging them (maybe because he's the artist they're looking for).Too bad Anthony got mixed up with Beelzebub Prince and a terrible gang that are also looking for said forger. They sold a bad painting to their boss? They want revenge.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 108
Collections: Gather Ye Sinners for GOmens RP Collection, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh the drama. The DRAMA! No, this is a lot of fun, it's a finished RP that Sol and I did together and I'm editing it up to share with all of you! I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> This piece will get explicit, but it's been a while since we wrote it and I can't remember the details of how explicit it gets. So I will update the tags as I get this edited. Thanks for giving it a chance if you do!

It was a mild late-September night and the showroom in the gallery _Dinah_ was full of people feigning some drastic level of aristocracy, wearing the most fashionable clothes while chatting idly with a glass of champagne in hand. The occasion for said gathering was the owner’s newest score, which lit the artistic world ablaze. It seemed they had procured a real Anthony van Dyck. It was an alternate version of the portrait of Willhelm ll of Oranien. Exquisitely preserved. Michael, the owner of this den of fine art, had found it somewhere in Belgium, hidden in an old man’s expansive personal collection.

Or that was how the story had been told.

Aziraphale Fell, a somewhat stuffy looking middle-aged man in waistcoat and bowtie, was not quite so sure about that origin. He’d been a conservator at the National Portrait Gallery for some time before he had decided that self-employment was a far more comfortable path for him than being yelled at by a boss with a bad temper. He was known for his expertise; hence he’d been invited by Michael to the gallery _Dinah_. Aziraphale had checked some of the artworks here for their authenticity, but not this particular piece before the infamous unveiling. The whole thing had been rushed, from find to purchase to hanging. One should be more delicate with the classics, but Michael just wanted to show off, Aziraphale was certain. He wasn’t even offended by the fact. If anything, maybe a little tetchy, that’s all. Seemed like Michael couldn’t get this rare gem out on display soon enough. Had to hope it wasn’t too rushed, is all.

So, now, with the freedom offered by a large gallery opening plied with food and music and wine, Aziraphale found himself standing as close as the owner allowed to the painting, scanning it over for the better part of the evening. Besides the nebulous story of its origin, something didn’t sit right for the restorer. He’d worked on a Rubens once, not a van Dyck, but the brushwork in one corner was giving him a headache. It was _almost_ identical to its sister portrait. _Almost._

Aziraphale sipped his champagne and wished to step closer and inspect the piece. He wasn’t up for the idle chatter going on in the gallery anyways and where he might be fortunate to have to explain the origin of his name for the umpteenth time. Another headache.

A third headache might arrive in the form of someone who did not at all mind mingling amongst the guests. One Anthony Crowley was having too much fun teasing anyone who tried to make a connection between him and any other famous Crowley's, of which there was no relation. Just a fun name he picked for himself, actually, but none of these rubes needed to know that. He sipped on wine and absorbed the self-involved and high-faluten drivel being bartered around between all these socialites. Just being present was daring enough, but, again, he was just another face in the crowd who flashed their wealth with sharp clothes and a tailored aesthetic.

Really, he was there to gloat.

Another successful copy passed off as an original. A feat he had been paid handsomely for by someone who should have more sense than money, and thankfully did not. Crowley was certain that this artwork was his best copy yet. He felt cocky as he slipped through the crowd, pretending to nibble on an hors d'oeuvre, when he saw a gentleman closely inspecting _his_ painting. Another opportunity to gloat presented itself and Crowley adjusted his tie before he wandered over to chat up this nosy somebody.

With both hands now tucked behind his back, Aziraphale leaned in as close as possible, just a hairs breadth away from triggering the alarm. A skill he perfected back in the museum. He’d even taken out his glasses, squinting at a particular fold of the small prince’s jacket. He could feel a presence beside him and decided to take a short glance as to whom was disturbing his thoughts.

Ah, another person in a sharp suit. Though, this one stuck out a little. He was almost... _flashy_ in a very monochromatic kind of way. But enough of that. Azirpahale’s eyes and attention wandered back to the painting.

"A real van Dyck," Crowley said after being snubbed. He, too, looked up at the canvas and whistled. "Though I don't know if you're supposed to be that close to them like this."

Crowley leaned away to show off the censor and wondering when one of the curators or a security guard was going to come and remove this gentleman from his spot rooted in front of _his_ painting.

Fabulous. Crowley was already an annoyance after only half a minute of monologue.

Aziraphale sighed and straightened up again, hands still behind his back and his glasses perched almost on the tip of his nose. He could as well be a professor, about to scold his students. It was a profession that had no appeal to him, but he suited the iconography of it, nonetheless.

" _I've_ been aware of the distance needed to _not_ trigger this, thank you."

Aziraphale’s voice was clipped and lips pursed. He thought that his whole demeanor was politely telling people to not approach him, but this fellow seemed to be the kind of person who was instantly drawn in by a 'Do Not Touch' sign. He sighed and took his glasses off to clip them onto the neckline of his waistcoat.

"I'm not so certain about your first remark, however."

“Beg your pardon?” Like Crowley was one to beg….

Aziraphale mumbled and looked back to the canvas. Forgetting himself for the chance to lecture and prove how right he was, he took in that particular part of the jacket, the same one that was giving him a headache, stepping in close enough to well and truly trip the alarm. Well, damn it all anyhow.

"Aha!" Aziraphale hoisted a finger in the air. “You see? You see in the jacket? The brushwork is _definitely_ off. The folds! You see them, don’t you?”

Crowley was unable to hide his brief horror as this stuffy man just stepped right up and made a large proclamation over a corner of the jacket. What? The folds? What did he know? But, luckily, that horror could be easily covered as two people in stiff uniforms hired by Michael came round the corner and were already motioning towards this nosy bastard.

Michael's Gorillas, as Aziraphale was secretly calling them, were positioning themselves behind this flash bastard first. But Crowley just stepped out of the way, easy as you please, and made room for them to get to Aziraphale. One of them reached out and firmly pulled the conservator back by his shoulder. It hurt! And Aziraphale yanked himself back out of their grip as soon as he was able.

"Sir, you're not allowed to step this close! This is the first and last warning! Do not overstep the line!"

The shouting was unnecessary. Making a scene, actually. But, however else were these gentlemen supposed to talk? Must be in their Code of Conduct or something.

Aziraphale huffed and puffed himself up like a very disgruntled pigeon.

"I need to talk to Ms. Dinah. This instant!"

His peculiar look aside, Aziraphale’s voice was a straight-out command that brooked no further arguments on the matter. Like he was going to be pushed around by a pair of rent-a-cops.

The other guard blinked a little sheepishly and turned around to find the owner. Best let her handle it and all that.

"And it wasn't me who overstepped," Aziraphale added with a glare to his new companion, looking up at Crowley with the added rage that he was short and frumpy in comparison. Or so Crowley assumed by that furious little scowl. And, in return, Aziraphale was able to take Crowley in fully. Tall, lanky, with long auburn hair and... were those sunglasses? Oh God, a _fashionable_ idiot. "Something is not right here, and I won't let myself get distracted by someone like _you._ "

"Me?" Crowley raised his hands and started to step back. "No, I don't think you will be. But I did try to warn you, didn't I?" And he made a passing gesture at the guards. "But, hey, what do I know?"

Anthony grinned and backed up further, turning just in time to steal a champagne flute away from one of the servers stationed around for all the gallery’s guests. It was accidentally so smooth he had to bite his cheek to keep from fawning over his exit and walked further into the crowd. _Shit!_ He wasn't going to stick around anyways, with this guy spotting, what, a slightly different direction in the folds of the jacket? van Dyck was stupid for pulling them the way he did! If anything, Crowley improved on it! But, lo, nobody cares for greatness.

Maybe Anthony could still hear over the din of the crowd the incensed gasp from Aziraphale when he watched the annoyance on two legs slink away. The sheer effrontery had him doused in anger, ready to be lit on fire. But he didn't really have time to spare Anthony another thought as the guard came back with Michael. The high-standing collar of her suit jacket gave her an even more towering look.

“Aziraphale, I've told you to not snoop around too much. What is so urgent that you call me _after_ you tripped the security line? I have guests to entertain."

This condescending tone only fueled Aziraphale’s anger even more. Had she come to him in the first place, he would not have to tell her what he was about to do.

The conservator stepped closer and hissed back," It's not a van Dyck, Michael."

The woman blinked, then, with a gesture of her hand she was sending the guards away. She barked a humorless laugh before looking back at Aziraphale in disbelief.

"You're nuts, Aziraphale. I had it checked! If this is still about me not hiring you—"

"No.” Maybe a little…. “No!” Right, that settles that. Aziraphale tugged on his vest and soldiered on. “I've seen van Dyck's original work and this one…this one!” He gestured back at it, which was now a reasonable three feet away, as far as Michael’s Gorilla’s could drag him off and get the gallery owner to speak to him. “This is a fake! A very convincing one, if I may add, but there are some brushstrokes that aren't right!” She gave him the same look everyone did when he tried to use this argument. It’s just that they didn’t know, but it still _annoyed_ him. “Let me, or someone at the museum, if you like, inspect it more and I'll prove it."

Michael frowned but took Aziraphale by the elbow to drag him to her office. For what it was worth, Michael _had_ hired Aziraphale in the past and, truthfully, he was usually a very calm sort. Mellow, without any bite. Seeing him like this made the gallery owner wonder....

Half an hour later, people were politely asked to leave. An issue with the heating system. Would get uncomfortably warm and sticky in here, very sorry and all. As people were guided outside, some of the staff were carefully removing the painting from the wall, carrying it to the back office.

Anthony, for his part, had watched the gallery empty out across the street, making his exit before everyone else was encouraged to do so. He had been hiding in a cafe to get a strong coffee before he went home and _oh fuck._ That one guy. The snoopy guy by his painting. A looker, yeah, but Crowley would bet the money from Michael that this change in the gallery’s welcoming atmosphere was all _that guy's_ fault. Anthony cursed into his cup and slipped in a few wrinkled bucks into a tip jar before he went to fetch his flashy car out of the parking garage and head back to his loft.

With some rearranging and cursing – Michael was not pleased and was making it known that the whole thing had ruffled her feathers something fierce – Aziraphale had the piece brought to his workshop. After hours and hours, well into morning, Aziraphale was certain he was right and now had the proof to show for it. The changes in brushwork and clothing folds were minimal. Even the work on the back of the canvas was astonishing.

Aziraphale presented his data in a concise but no less enthused presentation. Oh but he did like to lecture on things he was right about.

Michael was not delighted about that fact, shattering a vase in the heat of the moment. It was her vase. She could do as she liked with it.

As morning came, Aziraphale’s workshop was busy with police and former colleagues from the Gallery who should double check their work, lazy and ineffectual as they had become, it seemed. Needless to say, after their egos had been bruised and their thoughts put back to order on it all, they came up with the same. Which meant Michael had spent a ridiculous amount of money on what was just a very good replicate. One did like to support fan artists these days, but, well. It was never fun to be cheated.

Worse yet, it brought in someone unexpected.

A tall and broad-shouldered man approached Aziraphale after his former colleagues dispersed. At the time, Aziraphale had been on his way to the kettle. The imposing gentlemen in his soft lavender coat was unusual compared to the other officers and he smiled wide. One thought it looked as fake as that van Dyck in Aziraphale’s workshop. He reached out and took this fake gentleman’s hand on reflex, because, well, he had been up all night and Aziraphale was very tired now.

Jon Gabriel cut an impressive profile even in less formal uniforms. Even in the long wool coat and sleet gray slacks. He looked like he had just come off a plane and had that pushy nature of the American Bureaucrats, certain of his place and inserting himself of said place. Just like he did now as he unwound a pale scarf and came directly up to Aziraphale.

"A forgery is a bold claim and worse after all the documents that have already been confirmed. So." Gabriel clapped his hands and gave such a pinched smile; it was clear he wasn't happy. "What gives?"

"Pardon me?" Aziraphale asked, a little puzzled. He blinked up at the man, an empty mug in hand. All he wanted was some tea right now. "And you are Mister...? I already answered questions and my colleagues confirmed my observations." He did feel annoyed but also a tad bit intimidated. The heat of the anger he'd felt before had subsided and now. He only wished to fall into bed.

"Gabriel. I'm with Interpol." The accent probably didn’t match that claim. He reached one blocky hand into his coat and pulled out a thin silver case, popped the top, and fetched a clean cream-colored business card with his information on it. He should flash a badge, but he had suspicions that this restorer was going to be invaluable to a case they were building on some mysterious and prolific forgery in the area and he did not, despite everything about him, want to appear threatening. Jon smiled again. "I'm sorry for the lack of introductions. I thought Michael might have got you up to speed after I was called. You're Mr. Fell, right?" Jon Gabriel finished removing said scarf and put it over a chair before he pulled it out and sat down like a mountain that had studied ballet. He folded his hands neatly together on the table and settled in. "So. Mr. Fell. Walk me through why you think the latest van Dyck we have in collection is a fake."

Still a little confused and mostly annoyed to explain himself _yet_ _again_ , Aziraphale sat down as well, the card still between his fingers. Interpol.... However did Michael get Interpol involved? Maybe they knew each other?

"It wasn't too obvious of course,” Aziraphale started, his sleep-itchy eyes focused on the card in hand. “There are slight shifts in the brushwork compared to van Dyck's usual style. The varnish gave it away at the end, proving to be a much more modern mixture than it would have been in the 17th century. There were some extra ingredients to make it look aged." He fiddled with the card, feeling nervous about making his point. It was obvious to him and the gallery had already proved him right. Whatever else could they want from him? "I don't blame anyone who'd might take a brief look at it to think it's real. The forgery is excellent. Someone put much thought into almost every detail, including the canvas itself. But they got cocky with adding their own hand in it, you could say.

"Still, the person who did this has such a high skill, I wouldn't be surprised if there are more of these floating around."

Gabriel settled back, gently running his finger across his lip in thought. "Wouldn't be surprised, would you?"

“About others? From the same forger?”

Even as he said it, Aziraphale flushed at the idea. He had to calm down a little about his excitement. It had been thrilling to uncover this, in a way. Exhausting, tedious, and with more people in his workshop than he would ever like. But still. And as a conservator and lover of the fine arts, Aziraphale could not be anything but impressed with such an amount of sheer skill. But, as it was with every artist, they needed to add something personal in there, which had been their undoing. Ah, the folly of man.

Gabriel nodded and pointed, shaking his finger at Aziraphale. "Yes. Yes, precisely. Good! Alright!" He stood suddenly and grabbed his things, as though struck by something. "We'll be in touch!"

Aziraphale was startled. Well, no, mostly offended by the lack of manners. Not even a handshake or a proper goodbye. Surely he did not feel any desire to do so, but at least Mr. Gabriel here could have offered one. Americans, really.

"Yes, uh... You're welcome?"

_We'll be in touch._

Aziraphale dearly hoped this would just be a throwaway phrase, but something told him he hadn't seen the last of this Jon Gabriel.

He offered Gabriel a nod - because _he_ possessed some manners, thank you- and showed him out. The others was clearing off as well and finally, silence came back to Aziraphale’s sanctuary. He sighed, poured his tea, and let himself sink into a plush reading chair. He wouldn't make it to bed, but this was nothing new. As he was slowly drifting off, he'd regretted that the team took away van Dyck’s forged painting. He would have loved to examine it more, finding more hints about the mysterious forger. What kind of person were they? Did they live in the UK? Europe? Somewhere else entirely? Aziraphale was not able to end these thoughts, even to the last breath before he was overcome with the need to sleep.

And just seven blocks down, said forger was sprawled out on his couch in half undress, a little drunk, snoring peacefully from night into day. Until an annoying gentleman from Interpol knocked to get his opinion on the announcement of a forgery and stole time away from his sleepy afternoon with annoying questions about his expertise and if he might be willing to come on to help with a case. Crowley agreed just to save himself setting this rude Mr. Jon Gabriel on fucking fire.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a meeting with Gabriel, Aziraphale agrees to go have dinner with Crowley. It is almost a disaster. Almost.

The next morning was not, as one might guess, pleasant. Aziraphale felt like he'd been sporting a hangover, sadly without the joy of being drunk before. He got out of the workshop and up into his flat to take a boiling shower for his aching limbs before returning to his duty as a conservator.

The rest of his morning unfolded by tending to work pieces, stitching canvases back up, cleaning off the gunk of thirty years sitting in an attic and even got around to pay some attention to one of his beloved bibles. The headache did not stop him from humming along to some Schubert while touching up some of the delicate book illustrations as his landline rang. Never had he thought of hearing from Mr. Gabriel again so soon, but, apparently, the conservator had politely been ordered to pay the man a visit. At one of the Interpol offices.

So, such is the way that Aziraphale found himself in front of an office building, nervously fidgeting with his hands. It is always nerve-wracking, entering a place like this. Even with a clean conscious, one minds where one steps. Being looked over, scanned and then guided by a guard up to one of the upper floors was a treat he would have liked to miss out on. Aziraphale waited for a receptionist outside another set of offices to hang up her phone before addressing his matter of concern.

"Hello,” he said mildly, with his hands skirting up the front of his outfit in a nervous twitch. “I have an appointment with a Mr. Jon Gabriel?"

The woman smiled politely, a clean sterile smile, and motioned for Aziraphale to take a seat.

The office itself was quiet, compared to the floors below them, which had been a tumultuous thing when the doors to the elevator opened briefly and someone in a dark suit stepped out into what felt like chaos. Or at least sounded like it. Aziraphale was made to wait another ten minutes before Mr. Gabriel stuck his head out and looked down the hall, spotting Aziraphale with that same tight grin as before.

"Ah! Mr. Fell! So glad you could join us on short notice. Really appreciate it. Won't you come this way?" He took a step or two and held the door open for Aziraphale to join him in his brightly lit but somehow oddly stark corner office. "Hope it wasn't too much trouble getting down here."

Really, this kind of smile must been an infectious one. Because while Aziraphale was terrified and, again, a little just spiritually hungover, he smiled back. Aziraphale got up and entered the very uncomfortable office, his hands clutched behind his back.

"Good day, Mr. Gabriel. No, no, everything went quite fine. Well, until this point." Before even taking a seat, Aziraphale turned around to face the officer, inspector, whatever his position was. "Seems a bit soon to be seeing each other again? Would you kindly tell me why I've been summoned here?”

"Well, it's your eye," Gabriel answered simply and motioned for a seat at the desk as he went around and sat down opposite him. "Eyes, I should say. Well, I mean, you spotted a fake and I still have the guys running the RAMON microscans on that cross section they took of the van Dyck. The fuc...the _nails_ on the frame. I mean, sure, pulled it out of an old frame? Did some tricky work on aging it? I don't know. But I know you're right. _You_ know you're right. So." Gabriel motioned again, as Mr. Fell seemed a bit stubborn and wasn't taking a seat. He smiled, trying to remain polite as possible, perhaps forgetting a few niceties here and there. If they were going to be working together, Gabriel had to lay down _some_ groundwork to get this relationship going. He all but sighed and folded his hands neatly in front of him. "We want to catch him. And I think we need your help."

Hah! Last night it sounded like Aziraphale’s discovery was played as a joke and _now_ they needed him. He was a little proud about this fact and finally sat down.

"It's a marvelous piece and so much love for the details. I understand why it passed inspection to be played off as an original," he started, maybe a little too excited. He would love to study this masterwork again. Aziraphale cleared his throat before he continued. " I mean, it's a shame to trick people into buying it, but the techniques used are fascinating. Still a crime, very bad."

Gabriel didn’t seem so amused. Aziraphale had to plod on in hopes of finding his footing again.

"Well, yes. A billion dollar crime _so far._ "

"Ah. Uh. So…you think there might be more out there? Any hint on where this mysterious forger is operating from?"

Gabriel sat back and glanced down at his desk drawers, fetching a very unassuming mauve-colored file.

"We believe he's operating in the area, though we've tracked sales that we _think_ come from this same counterfeiter all the way to Sao Paulo and Beijing. So, lucky us, the guy likes to travel." Gabriel gave Aziraphale a moment to open the file and review the seven confirmed cases of remade Rubens and two more van Dyck knock-offs.

“A billion – good gracious.”

Aziraphale took the file and scanned through the photos. His eyebrows raised even higher and his eyes widened. Those were _gorgeous_. From only a photo, he would be hard pressed to guess which ones were fakes and which ones were forgeries. Only the first documented case file showed a more significant difference. Early work. Rusty hand. Whoever this was, they had honed their craft by the last one. 

“So this person specialized in Rubenesque art. And you think there might be more. And you want my expertise on these, I guess?”

All the annoyance he’d felt yesterday was replaced by a thrilling feeling. He, a Soho based conservator was involved in a criminal case of high-profile forgery. How Romantic! Aziraphale must suppress a wiggle at the thought, before another one barrels in. How _adventurous_ this would be! Sure, there was no real danger afoot for him, no dramatic chases or guns or anything, but being involved in an actual crime investigation was just so very exciting. And, it complimented his skills. Couldn’t ignore a little stroke of his own ego there, could he? The cherry on top of that would be that he was able to look deeper into the work of this mysterious forger. Seriously, not many people had the skill of an old master these days, to that extreme detail to get the frame and the canvas _just so_ and Aziraphale was already a tad bit enchanted by it.

“Of course I’m offering my professional knowledge to track down this geni – er – terrible criminal.” He beamed, closing the file in his lap.

Gabriel wasn't even going to pretend that Aziraphale was about to say "genius." He didn't acknowledge it when he scooped up the file. He didn't acknowledge it when he told Aziraphale that there were some forms to fill out and they'd run a quick background check and he was going to be working with someone else they knew in the art scene who had a gallery in town and should be in touch with Aziraphale early next week, assuming everything worked out.

"We really appreciate your help on this one, Mr. Fell." Gabriel stood, rebuttoning his suit jacket before he offered to shake hands with Aziraphale this time. “We’ll be in touch.

A background check was nothing that made him nervous. All they would find was a note from the tax office, finding it suspicious that a human being was able to file their taxes so efficiently.

The mention of a partner in all this was interesting but also a little annoying. So far, Aziraphale had preferred to work on his own but a matter like this was calling for more pair of eyes, surely. He was curious who that person would be. Someone he knew? The art scene was not that vast.

“Just fulfilling my duty as a citizen, I guess,” he answered with a polite smile, taking the broad hand to shake it. For someone so soft looking, Azirpahale made sure to have a firm handshake.

The rest of the week passed without any more disturbances. Aziraphale kept working and watched the news with much interest as it seemed that the incident in the Gallery _Dinah_ had become public. Surely, this was nothing the police were too eager about, but gossip traveled faster than sound and once one told their best friend about it, who’s promised to not tell anybody but their mother-in-law and so forth, things got out of hand quickly. And the artistic community _loved_ a bit of drama.

The conservator had filled the forms, ever so correct, and as expected, nothing had been come out of his background check. So, when Monday came, Aziraphale was hunched over a tome, magnifying glasses on and lost in intricate pattern of a book illustration. His hand was steady, holding an instrument that was mostly seen at the dentist to cautiously clean off some century old dirt. His calm demeanor was a ruse, because word was he would be hearing from his new partner and he was, in a word, _giddy._

And, sure enough, like an answer to his unspoken prayer, the phone rang for Mr. Aziraphale Fell. It was well after noon, beyond the expected window one might assume a new partner on a case such as this should call. Anything earlier would have been a disgusting message of half-formed syllables, as Crowley did not like to get up early and, when he did, needed stimulants and sugar to form coherent thoughts. Even so, he was leaning in his semi-public gallery against a faux-distressed wooden panel wall, turning the card over he had received from that Gabriel fellow with the restorer's name scribbled on it.

"Aziraphale," he muttered, testing the name in his mouth. "AZIRAphale. Azeera...fucking unbelievable."

He sighed and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, the black coiled chord to his landline draped across his naked shin. Of course he had it for the aesthetic. Of _course_ he did.

"Aziraphale," he muttered once more, just for good measure, and shrugged, getting himself prepared for an answer.

That came after the fifth or sixths ring.

“A.Z. Fell, Conservatory of Fine Art and Rare Books.” That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? “How may I help you?” The fellow on the line sounded rather cheerful. Which, again, he absolutely was. Aziraphale sat at his desk, still wearing the ridiculous magnifying glasses, eyeing up his previous work, which turned out to be fixing a hole in the canvas of a 19th century portrait. He had just about finished the pages on the book he had been cleaning while waiting for the other party to state their matter of interest.

"Yeah, hi." Crowley rounded onto his other shoulder, holding the card up flat over his chest as he stood taller, smiling at nobody, putting on his personality with no one to witness it. "And would this be Mr. Fell? Anthony Crowley, gallery with the same name. I'm a neighbor of yours, actually. In the neighborhood. _You_ wouldn't happen to be _the_ Mr. Fell contacted by one Jon Gabriel of the London Bureau working on that case they nabbed from Dinah's?"

Something rang when hearing that voice. Something not very pleasant, but Azirapahle couldn’t place it at the given moment. He was preoccupied with sorting that gallery in. He had heard about it, surely, placed somewhere in Mayfair as far as he remembered. He could not recall having ever met the owner, though.

“Yes, the one. Thank you for contacting me so swiftly, Mr. Crowley.” It was a tiny jibe, Crowley was certain of it. Aziraphale, too, funny enough. “Mr. Gabriel had told me you would contact me this week.”

He set down his instrument, that was still lingering in his left hand, focusing on the call now. He could feel his pulse rising. So, this was it, the start of their involvement in this criminal case. His voice trembled slightly. Probably gave away his excitement.

“So, I figured you might have more instructions on how to approach the matter further?”

"Start with authenticating the sales?" Crowley offered, smiling into the receiver, listening to this uppity Southern fellow practically salivating over the phone. He had to be fairer than that. Mr. Fell maybe wasn't salivating. But he was giving away a lot in his tone and it just made that little evil part of Crowley's mind tick over, pleased he would be working with someone he could probably manipulate. "I have a few records I was able to give to Gabriel. But I'd love to see what you have in mind, Mr. Fell."

“That sounds jolly good. It would be much easier to show me those in person, I think. So....” He looked at his pocket watch, something he preferred so his wrists were free while working. “What would you say if we meet for dinner? If your amenable today of course, however, I think that the Bureau would appreciate us to get at it as soon as possible. There’s a nice place between here and Mayfair that provides enough privacy to discuss this matter. If you like sushi, that is.”

Crowley hated sushi. And he hated being told when to meet. Except he didn't really hate sushi and he really didn't mind being told where to go, just that little mischievous part of him wanted to make trouble. It was the same voice that got him into the greater trouble that declared itself to be…his life. The rest of him was along for the ride and scrambling to keep up and keep him out of jail.

"Yeah. Do they do tempura?" He turned his wristwatch over to face him, some blocky and ostentatious thing that _always_ got in the way when he was painting, so he had to take it off. He considered getting a pocket watch, but it would ruin the line of his clothes.

Now this seemed to be a splendid start for this adventure. Meeting with a mutual and discussing a criminal case over sushi. Perfect. Aziraphale beamed at the receiver.

“Of course they do! Let’s say we’ll meet there around seven? Should be enough time to enjoy the meal and discuss the sales.” It had been quite a while since he’d gone out to dinner with someone as well. Eating in company was almost always nicer, if the other participant was a good conversationalist. That reminded him to invite Tracy out again and soon.

"Sounds good, Mr. Fell. Seven? I'll be there." Crowley practically purred into the phone as a habit and grinned at the receiver as well. " _Ciao._ "

He hung up and looked for his day planner, flipping through it to check who he was supposed to be meeting, or at least pretending to meet, and wondering which files he should discuss with this rube. Either way, free meal. And, by the end of it, he was sure he could make it out without paying.

There was a beep and a ring over the line before Azirpahale was able to say his farewell and he looked at the receiver a little irritated. _Ciao_. Now, that sounded a little flashy, but such things could be expected from gallery owners. At least he hadn’t tried to throw some French words like misplaced oral garnish. The conservator shrugged and hung up himself, getting back to the task of tending to Lady Meredith Bloomington.

-♦-

At precisely seven, Aziraphale was sitting at his favorite table in the small Japanese restaurant with a good view on the entrance but undisturbed otherwise. Since both of them didn’t know how the other looked, Aziraphale had just told the stuff that he was expecting a guest by the name of Crowley. There wasn’t too much space here anyways, so it might not have been necessary at all, but he wanted to be prepared for all eventualities. He was quite excited and wondered what kind of stereotypical art dealer he would meet. He was so forward as have already ordered a bottle of sake for the occasion.

It was absolutely vital to be a little late, as it was trendy to do so. But when Crowley showed up, dressed in all black, his shirt unbuttoned twice and open to show off a little chest, hair artfully coifed, sleeves buttoned with little silver snake cufflinks, he glanced over where the staff pointed out the gentleman he was meeting and felt his stomach flip.

_This guy._

It wasn't fair! It was the stuffy man from the gallery _Dinah_! The one who had spotted his own fake _without_ proper scientific equipment. This guy! Who was supposed to take him down! Sitting under a slight spotlight, glowing like a halo, looking _scrumptious._ Wait, no, not....

Crowley steeled himself and sauntered slowly over to the table with a perfect shit-eating grin. He had practice. He had practic _ed_ in the mirror earlier, even. So.

"Mister Fell," Crowley said on his approach, extending his hand when he was at the table. "A pleasure."

As he had been paying too much attention to the menu, Aziraphale only looked up when he was formally addressed. A smile was already on his face when he looked and stood up, only to falter right when he saw who approached him.

_This man!_

Aziraphale reacted on habit instead of intent, taking Crowley’s hand but with a much weaker grip than usual. Off-kilter, that was it. He was still looking gob smacked before his brows furrowed and he took his hand back, maybe a little too fast.

“It’s you! You…you! You triggered that alarm.”

“What?”

“ _On purpose._ ”

“I didn’t.”

“I was well enough away from the painting. You. You!”

Why, oh why must the universe be so cruel? This could have been a perfectly fine evening and now that…glamorous fob was here. They were supposed to work together! But maybe, he shouldn’t get ahead of himself here. It had been an unfortunate first meeting, but Aziraphale wanted to be on that case and maybe he wasn’t such a prick as he’d been at the gallery event. And if he was a massive prick, at least he was a good looking one.

But that wasn’t the point here!

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat and gestured to the seat opposite of himself, trying to get his composure back.

“So. You’re, um, you’re Crow – Mr. Anthony Crowley.”

"So I am," Anthony answered, motioning at himself. Oh, he saw the recoil. He could _feel_ the disgust. He had to smile at it anyways. "And I didn't _mean_ to trip the alarm on you. You were getting really close to it anyways," he mumbled as an add on and pulled out his own chair to sit. "So. Sushi? What's good here." He looked up and motioned. "Come on. You were already cozy. Don't let me ruin your evening, Mr. Fell. Do you prefer Mr. Fell? Or Az? Or...god forbid, Azzz _zira_ phale?"

Alright. This one made it hard to redeem himself.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and took a sharp inhale. He had managed to ruin it in under five minutes, congratulations.

“I prefer Mr. Fell, thank you,” _As my first name seems to be so much trouble for you to speak out loud, you troglodyte_. “You asked about tempura before. Frankly, everything is sublime here.”

This would be a horrible meeting. Oh, the flash bastard, with the alarm incident, the name, everything about him. Aziraphale really had to try to keep his features neutral. He wanted that case, whatever it might cost, even if it would be an evening with this outrageous braggart. As to not waste any further time on insults, Aziraphale beckoned a waiter to their table and ordered. It was a mixed plate for him. Curiously, it was pretty sparse on Crowley’s side. He’d neglected to select a single roll and told Aziraphale to order for him, only adding on the tempura because, well, he had asked for it earlier. Perhaps he was just ignorant on the terms. No harm in that.

As the waiter took both their orders, he took a sip from his sake before addressing the other again. It tempered the conversation, so he didn’t so much regret ordering it.

“Now, did you bring any documents we should see through? About the sales

"You cut to the quick, Mr. Fell."

“No need to dance around it. Straight to business,” Aziraphale answered.

“Straight to…right.” Anthony looked up and smiled at the waiter to come back to them. "Right. Another round after this one. I think we'll be a while."

He smiled and took in Aziraphale clearly now, even with dark-tint blue shades. Aziraphale was flustered. He was cute, but he was _angry._ Which might make him sharp. Or it might make him slip. Had to just watch and wait.

"Right. Sales! Okay." Crowley clapped his hands together and dug into a sleek black attaché he had brought along, popping the clips and tugging out the folder with faxes from auctions and signed receipts of sale. "This is what I could get my hands on to authenticate Michael's van Dyck. The one I thought was the real deal, but, boy, you have an eye for the details. I'm honestly impressed."

He wanted to prolong this, didn’t he? Really, did that man only exist to be a nuisance to anybody, especially certain conservators? At least he got what they needed. Aziraphale pulled his glasses out of his vest pocket, scanning over the documents.

“I worked at the National Portrait Gallery for a long time. Thank you.“

“Welcome.”

Azirahale glanced up, brows still tented together. Truly adorable.

“Does this mean you sealed the deal with her?” Seemed like a phrase Anthony would like, and at the very least got a little pleasant smile out of him. Wretched creature. “I knew that she couldn’t have found it in Belgium.”

“Why not?” Anthony asked.

“Who checked it for authenticity?”

"I have a man over in Brussels who knows the auction houses there better than I."

Those little round glasses were a nice touch. Almost comically so. It seemed like a set piece and Crowley had to bite his cheek not to laugh every time Aziraphale looked back up at him.

Aziraphale bit back a groan and tipped his finger on the contact, in a demanding way.

"That does not answer my question, _dear boy_. Has this man examined it? Or did that happen here, which certainly how I wouldn’t have done it, but it happens. Moving pieces before they’re authenticated."

“Things get moved.”

“So is that a yes?”

“I’d have to check with my man.”

“In Brussels?”

“That’s where he was last time.”

Was that man capable of one straightforward answer? It seemed not! And, worst, it was clear how much Crowley was enjoying himself. Aziraphale wanted to crumple the receipt of sale in hand and scream at the ceiling. Instead, he took a breath and soldiered on.

"So Michael acquired it from you. You’re the last point of contact.”

“Just _a_ point of contact. I do a lot of sales. Gallery owner. And I owed one to Michael. You could just as easily as her.”

“I’m sure they are. No wonder Gabriel asked for your collaboration in this, then."

“Because I’m connected to Michael?”

“Because you’re the last point of sale.”

"I think that must be it." Crowley played with the drink for a bit, smiling into the tiny cup. "And you? Work for Michael? Or just a big big fan of her parties?" He absolutely must sound sarcastic, because he definitely meant it as such, still needling away at Mr. Fell.

The finger roaming over the receipt stopped and, if it would be possible, Aziraphale would have committed murder with a look. Manslaughter with a glance. _Severe bodily harm_ with a sneer.

"Occasionally,” Aziraphale conceded. It wasn’t even that the conversation was bad. It was the tone and the slippery answers. “Usually, she's satisfied with my expertise. I tended to some of her pieces as well. I'm a conservator after all. Restoration.”

“So I was told.”

“Yes, so then I guess you have a business relation with her as well. And maybe you like to spend all your time at frivolous soirees, but that's not my cup of tea."

“They’re not frivolous,” Anthony mumbled.

“Beg your pardon?”

“They are not,” he said clearer, extenuating the way he moved his lips, “’ _frivolous_ soirees.’”

“Oh?”

“They’re networking.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale was very reserved in his overall demeanor. This gentleman wanted to provoke him, getting any kind of reaction he could pull to the surface. He wouldn't give him that so easily, oh no. _See it as a challenge, Aziraphale. Maybe this can bring both of you out of this dreadful evening alive._

Luckily, their plates came before any plotting could be accomplished.

The sushi was a delight, as always. Aziraphale closed his eyes and forgot the world around him, if but a moment, savoring the taste on his tongue. An appreciative sound escaped him, an unconscious habit. This increased his mood immensely. And slightly complicated Crowley’s. That was a very distracting noise.

"You're not upset that all this happened?”

Crowley glanced up from his plate. He had been resting his chin on his knuckles in the moment, hiding his mouth.

“Mm, what?”

“On one of your deals?" Aziraphale asked.

"I'm livid."

Crowley smiled as he watched Aziraphale eat. He had a talent for eating. It was almost sensual, and Crowley was practically enraptured. He would use it against Aziraphale at some point, but he savored what he could now.

"I feel my reputation is at stake,” Anthony continued. “But I'm good at what I do, and _some_ people like me.” Three was no way he could ignore Aziraphale’s eyebrows creeping back up to his hairline at that. “So I think I'll make out with an accommodation or something from the other dealers."

Aziraphale popped another sushi in his mouth for good measure. It, like sushi, sustained him through the headache that was one Anthony Crowley.

“Livid, yes.”

“Outraged,” Crowley added.

"Outraged, I can see that," he added dryly. "Mm. Quite.”

It was Crowley’s turn to suppress an eyeroll. Did this man have to be such a bastard? And why did it make him feel…happy? Seen? Terrible. He should make a comment about Aziraphale’s vest and devastate the poor man.

“Now Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale said and Crowley blinked out of his thoughts. “I am no art dealer, unlike you, but as far as I can tell there's nothing too wrong with the documents. You’d be the expert on that?”

“So they tell me,” Crowley answered.

“Yes, and as I stated before, there's no wonder it was mistaken for an original. The craftsmanship is astonishing." There it was again, the admiration towards the forger. Well their skill. And someone like this Crowley fellow might be able to understand him being impressed by it. One tiny thing they can share in common. "Too bad the culprit is not using it for honest intentions. Must be a very talented chap.”

"You think so?" Crowley had to wipe his mouth very quickly to hide the satisfied grin at the comment. He'd be a liar if it didn't tickle him pink to hear such a compliment. "Well, I'd say most people would think him of, mm, ill repute? Criminal and all that. Find him and lock him up for good, you know. Throw him out to the wolves or something." Crowley shrugged and poked at his tempura to be polite. "Pretty good, though. Except for...which part was it again you spotted? The lapels or the, um, the folds?” Like he hadn’t obsessed over it as soon as Aziraphale mentioned it. “I mean, honestly, how long you must have stared at the original to be able to spot that. Extraordinary talent you have there too, Mr. Fell. Sincerely."

The praise came unexpected and caught Aziraphale off guard, making his cheeks flush a little. He knew he was good. It was a fact and something no one could take from him, despite several other insecurities. He tapped his mouth with the napkin to hide his flustered state.

"Yes. Yes, the lapels. And part of the draped fabric, as I saw later in my workshop. I'm a very observant man, that's all. It But once I knew where to look, really, it was just so glaringly obvious. Half an hour to authenticate it, after that.” He shouldn't brag, really. Must have been that flashy influence of his dining partner. "Aren't those a little too extreme measures for an art forger though? To the wolves, really. I mean, surely they must be punished. Going to prison and all. But no one was physically harmed in the process."

“So you know. What if he’s also a cannibal?”

“Then I think you read too many Thomas Harris novels.”

Crowley was startled into a laugh. It made Aziraphale beam again, like he’d just won something over the other fellow.

"Pieces like those are only acquired by people with enough money to do so. They still will own their pompous estates and be able to dine at the Ritz. It's more about their ego. But that's...just my humble opinion."

"Ah, but how often do the super-rich lose their humanity?" Crowley shrugged.

“The French might argue they have a solution for such things.”

There was that little surprised smile again, that open-eyed earnest look that could be seen even of the shades on Crowley’s slim face. Another tiny victory for Aziraphale. He had to keep himself from wagging his finger in a little dance.

“Well.” A brief stumble, but Crowley found himself again. “Things _happen_. In the art world.”

The 'dark side' of the art trade wasn't necessarily all murders and bad deals and the likes. Just, people got greedy and some said things like, "I would do anything to get my hands on that original Rembrandt" or whatever and, with enough money and influence, bad things happened. Of course, Crowley's whole deal was adding to the "bad things happen," so what should he even say about it except offer a shrug and hope that if anyone found out _he_ was responsible for these forgeries, they did just put him jail or something. Wouldn't that be nice?

"Either way," Crowley said and waved the sentiment aside, focusing on Aziraphale. "Yes. Sharp eye. And, better yet, an apparent appreciation for the craft." He smiled too nicely, too genuinely at Aziraphale before he sat back again and looked down at their food. “Hmm…. I’ll be honest with you.”

“Oh? A first!” Aziraphale said, feeling warmth for his dining companion perhaps for the first time in the evening. Crowley shared a look that said he was in on their joke, only baring his teeth a little.

“I, um…well.” He pointed at his yet untouched plate. “That's nasty. Why do you eat that raw fish stuff anyways?"

Angered disbelief replaced the wonder on the conservator’s face over the mutual understanding of their appreciations. It was like a silver-lining and Aziraphale had to blink twice when confronted with an open and genuine expression, only to be brought back down again. Even a cross gasp escaped him.

“It’s _sushi_.” That was obvious. “It’s a delicacy and I _asked_ if you would like to eat here. You asked about the tempura, even!”

This was ridiculous. This man was ridiculous. No redemption for Anthony Crowley here, oh no. He was so _irritating_. Azirpahale would have liked to toss some bills on the table and walk out, as long as he could still save some dignity. Instead, with the case attached to that stupid man, he inhaled sharply through his nose and reached for the other’s plate.

“I’m not a fan of wasting food in any kind of way.” Aziraphale reached out to take the plate from in front of Crowley. “If this is not to your liking, I’ll take care of it.”

"I like the tempura!" Crowley seemed to uncoil and snap out like a viper, grabbing up Aziraphale's hand before he could retreat with the rest of his meal. "I _said_ I liked the tempura. I was _curious_ about the fish." He frowned as he saw his hand on Aziraphale's skin, how nicely they contrasted each other with his black silk shirt and Mr. Fell's cream-colored sleeves. Except gross. Crowley quickly let go and wiped his hand on his napkin.

"Either way, yeah. Alright. I'm sorta full." He took his little glass up and poured himself another shot. "Sake's good."

Surprised by the quick movements, Aziraphale almost relented. Almost. Calm demeanor once more proved useful, in that he didn’t let on how startled he was. The way Crowley moved so quickly. The way he spoke. He held Crowley’s gaze. Or, he held it as well as he could with his opponent wearing sunglasses. Crowley had let go of Aziraphale as if he’d burned himself, leaving Aziraphale the victor. He huffed triumphantly through his nose and took the remaining rolls off the plate. The tempura, however, was left alone, discreetly slid back over the table to the ginger man. He didn’t comment on this. Crowley could take them or leave them at his leisure. If it would be the last option, Azirpahale would simply take them home.

“It is,” Aziraphale finally said after their plates were divided once more. “This place is kind of a hidden gem. For people who actually _like_ sushi.” He saw to the new assortment on his own plate now, eating in silence for a while.

After Aziraphale had finished – damn well taking his time – he broached the topic once more of their upcoming arrangement.

“I think the logical next step would be to give me access to the other pieces that had been identified. Maybe I’m able to discern a pattern there. Every artist has their own signature. There is nothing as a perfect copy. This one was remarkably good, but still. The forger can’t deny his own hands.”

Crowley casually glanced down at his own hand and did his best not to form a fist on the table.

"Suppose you are right," Crowley answered and smiled as he leaned forward. "We'll just have to get the rest from Gabriel then?” _If_ Gabriel would loan them out. And wouldn't that be funny? It'd be like they were just coming home again. “Put them all together. I might have space in my gallery if we need somewhere to look at them. Give you room to do your stuff. "

 _The first sensible suggestion you’ve said all evening._ Aziraphale pursed his lips again and nodded. Hopefully, the inspector would come behind that logic fast enough. The prospect of working together in Crowley’s gallery made Azirpahale wince, but there would be more space to operate and compare the pieces side by side.

“Agreed. So, should I inform the good Inspector, or will you?” he asked, immediately regretting to have done so. Of course it would be him. Crowley looked like he would wiggle himself out of every task that was not of his taste.

"You two look like you'd get on thick as thieves." Crowley smiled again. He could tell Aziraphale didn't want to do it, but the poor bastard left himself open to it. "And, besides, it would seem self-serving if I were to offer it. Like I was trying to do something illegal or something, making a collection of forgeries in my gallery. But if it came from a reputable restorator…conservator? Such as yourself? Well." And he shrugged, reaching for his attaché like he was ready to go.

He wouldn’t make this mistake a second time. Having to deal with that Gabriel was as much of a delight to Azirpahale as was sitting here for the majority for this strained dinner. He just watched Crowley scramble his stuff together. Leaving without even offering to pay. The rudest man in the world, it seemed! But Azirpahale had suggested this meeting in the first place, so it wasn’t unreasonable he should pay. Out of sheer courtesy. Victory again in the name of polite society.

“I guess we’ll see each other back in your atelier then.” Aziraphale stood himself, manners a habit that were hard to shake, and held out his hand. He just hoped the man would bugger off soon enough, so the rest of the night could be a better one.

"I suppose we shall." After Crowley was all gathered up, he reached across the table and shook Aziraphale's hand. "Lovely evening, Mr. Fell. Truly. I hope you've enjoyed yourself, because we will definitely be doing this again." He smiled, broad and too toothy, before he took his hand back suddenly and did a little wave. " _Ciao!_ "

"Yes. Looking forward to that," Aziraphale said stiffly and watched the tall and lanky figure swagger away. It accentuated his hips, which made Aziraphale angrily aware of them. He huffed, sitting down and turning his attention to the still untouched tempura. " Why, dear Lord. Why? " He murmured to the food and dreaded the upcoming future. Working together with Anthony Crowley would be a complete nightmare.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to get to work! And also discover some fun things about Anthony and Aziraphale's pasts (and also drink. Lots of drinking).

“Answer.” Aziraphale struggled to keep the phone pressed against his ear as he worked on getting the top off his painkillers. “

Answer the blood phone.” Another day, another mild headache, which may have been caused from the wine he drank to calm his nerves yesterday after that unpleasant dinner. Or it was that glamorous fob's fault. Maybe a mix of both.

As the conservator finally reached the right person, jumping hoops through a telephone tree that was probably designed to annoy people into confessing crimes they didn’t commit, he’d done his best to propose the idea to Gabriel of them getting all the evidence together in Crowley's workshop. It needed a little bit of convincing. Seemed they wanted to keep it in their possession, which probably made sense, but eventually Gabriel complied and said that the works would be sent over as fast as possible. The only blunder in this arrangement was that it had to be Crowley’s gallery. Since they’d agreed to work together. Aziraphale just stared at his palm and the three tablets upon it before he popped them in dry. Best get it over with.

And say what you will about the international police division assigned to researching international classical painting Forgeries, but these guys moved fast. Crowley barely had enough time to tidy up his front gallery before two people in boring khaki suits knocked on his door with big deliveries. _Ah, my babies!_ Crowley didn't clap and rub his hands, but he felt it in his heart as Elias Sandalphon and Natalia Uriel guided everyone to drop off the merchandise and have Crowley sign too many pointless documents.

“And you've alerted Mr. Fell?"

"No," Mx. Uriel answered, handing over another clipboard.

"... _Will_ you...alert him?"

"No," Uriel answered with the same smile that they’d seen on Gabriel. And now Sandalphon, too. They must teach it at the academy or something. Somehwere. Had to be it.

"Peachy. Thank you."

“Don’t mention it,” Sandalphon said, and his voice was surprising enough that Crowley just stepped out of the way until they both left.

After the officers were out, Crowley sighed and pinched his nose. Good. Everything was back where it should be. Now he had to just get through this, lead everyone on a long, pointless trail, and maybe convince Aziraphale to go on another dinner with him, somewhere classy, and off to a hotel, somewhere sleazy, and get a peak under that stuffy exterior.

"Right!"

Anthony pulled out his cell phone and another one of those stupid cards left by the Interpol folks, even though he already had Aziraphale's number, and gave it a ring-a-ring-ring.

The man in question had not been anticipating the swift action to his request to Inspector Gabriel. He picked up, surprised by their speed, only to hear that arrogant voice far too soon.

“Hello? This Azira…uh…Mr. Fell?”

Another pain reliever for the road, it seemed.

So thirty minutes later, Aziraphale found himself in Mayfair, a big bag slung around his shoulder with all the instruments he could transport this way. He also carried an old and well-loved cognac-colored leather suitcase, including various sources in the form of books and magazines. The gallery itself was a wonder. Everything looked quite modern and minimalistic from the outside, something oh so typical for rich gallery owners. Though this one did have a pleasing plant motif etched into the glass in a fine, elegant hand, and several robusts plants took up space in the small lobby.

With a deep sigh, Aziraphale knocked on the door. This was going to be a tedious day, but he was too curious about the other paintings to even dream of giving the assignment to another peer.

Crowley was almost certain he could make it even more tedious, but he was enjoying a plate of homemade scones and got up to answer the door, smiling behind slimmer but darker mirrored sunglasses than he had worn for their dinner the night prior.

"Mr. Fell!" Crowley was in a plain black shirt, belt, pants, and shoes, which stood out against the cement walls. Minimalism was clean and easy and he loved it. He loved it as he held out his plate too. "Scone? They're cranberry orange. Nothing fancy."

After a quick once-over, Aziraphale managed a polite smile. Before he could say his greetings properly, the scones were offered and his features lit up.

“Mr. Crowley, I— Oh, thank you! What a welcome!”

He picked up one, taking in the scent of freshly baked goods before he took a bite. Lord, they were scrumptious! Warm, sugary, with a good texture. Oh. Oh, no…. The bastard could bake.

The interior was as expected. Aziraphale did not understand the appeal of minimalism. It felt so cold and empty, as if one could lose oneself on a single room that seemed to grow and grow, without any boarders to navigate through. Well, everyone fancied something different. Munching on the sweet treat, he sat down his bag and suitcase, shrugging out of his coat.

“Very modern. Your gallery.” Crowley watched him from where he’d posted, a serpent in the corner. “Much light though.” True, the windows cut around the top of the walls gave the whole thing an almost greenhouse air to it, despite cement walls. It was a strange contradiction. “Very good. Is everything set up for work?”

"Should be," Crowley answered and finally stepped forward. He offered to take Aziraphale's coat. "Everything got dropped off.”

Crowley took the old tired gray thing off Aziraphale, shaking it out a bit and staring for a moment before he went to hang it up. It was in remarkable condition for looking like an antique. He returned and walked Aziraphale through the shortest path across the gallery, back through an open door, and motioned towards the carefully packaged crates waiting nearby in an equally minimalistic office. Well. Minimalistic except for the ridiculous gold and red desk and matching chair, over in the corner away from the crates and Aziraphale’s impromptu workstation.

"I've got tables. I've got lights. I've got chairs. Hope that does it for you. I'm going to be going through proof of purchases and auction claims, yay me."

“Yay indeed.”

In truth, Aziraphale didn’t feel any sympathy towards the other, regarding the paperwork. That was his job, after all, much like it was Aziraphale’s job to get out his gloves and open the crates, setting up the artwork for his meticulous inspection. He set out his instruments as well as some of the catalogues he’d brought along to check over. The silly magnifying glasses were up on his head already, quick as you like, to take a good look at the brushwork on both canvas and in photographs.

When standing in front of the other forgeries, he took a moment to really see them, to absorb them. One could not help an appreciative whistle. Even if they were fakes, which others said they were, it was….

“Remarkable.”

Crowley, at his desk, with his sunglasses up in his hair to hold back his bangs, glanced over as though Aziraphale had called his name. He smiled, only because the conservator’s back was to him and he could get away with it. For a moment. It seemed Aziraphale shook his reverie off like he did his coat, and it was back to business. Or, well, back to the present. And only punctuated by a low gurgly growl.

“Can I take another of those scones? I haven’t had breakfast yet and they’re too delicious to pass on.” It wasn’t true, of course he’d eaten breakfast. It’s just that the taste on his tongue was a distraction. They were very good scones, but that was not something he would give that pest Crowley to gloat about.

"Oh?"

Crowley was all prepared to pretend to look over sales while really just shoring up his accounts and ensuring he had covered everything before Mr. Gabriel and all them had a look over it. But, Mr. Fell wanted a scone? Not like Crowley was going to eat them all and, honestly, the baking was just an excuse to get up early enough for Mr. Fell's arrival, or else Crowley would be a mess all morning. It was sort've...meditative?

"Yeah. Got plenty." He picked up the plate and padded back over, now barefoot, as he had decided to take off his shoes at his desk. He liked being barefoot. It was grounding, same as baking. He was a very clean man by nature, but the bottom of his feet were practically black from going about without socks or shoes. He smiled, and held up the plate again.

"Want anymore?”

“Anymore?” Aziraphale asked, trying to hide his intrigue as Crowley gestured behind him.

“Well. I think I still have some of the raspberries one left." He didn't think, he knew, but, hey, don't want to seem too chummy to the man who would have cut off all communication with him and drop him off a bridge with cement shoes, going off what Aziraphale’s face said over dinner last night.

“Raspberry?” Aziraphale struggled to not put his hand either to his chest or his stomach. “If it’s not too much of a bother...”

Before Mr. Crowley took off for his mysterious kitchen, Aziraphale snagged another scone off the plate.

Studying these paintings took a great deal of patience and a light touch. It was a testament to the forger, really, how thorough Aziraphale must be as he studied them. He hummed and hawed and scurried back and forth between the catalogue and the painting itself, changing his gloves twice through the process. The magnifying glasses perched on his nose was a bit comedic. Crowley had to bite his lips to keep from smiling when he looked up and caught a glimpse.

It didn’t matter to hide it, really. Studying a painting could consume Aziraphale like a good book. He inspected everyone on its own, scribbling notes into an old leather notebook, referring back a few pages to some notes he had taken on the time period just for this occasion. And then, after each was taken in as individuals, it was time to compare the similarities between the sets. His tongue darted out between his lips and he was reminded to step back and eat another scone as he worked.

At some point, Aziraphale had worked up enough between the trips around the paintings and his messy table that he’d rolled up his sleeves. It was warm in here, warmer than he was used. As it was Mr. Crowley’s place, he did not comment on it, and simply folded up his cuffs until they were snug around his elbows.

More remarkable than forearms, though, was that Crowley had not disturbed him. As he stepped back, not for the first time, Aziraphale turned to the desk to see if the gallery owner was still present; Aziraphale tended to lose track of his surroundings while being engrossed in something.

“I think I found some kind of signature.”

That's not fair. Removed his coat. At his scone. Rolled his sleeves up! And Crowley was just supposed to sit there and _not_ think inappropriate things? Well, least for half an hour. After that, he managed to distract himself at his desk, spreading out his documents and then just getting out a sketchbook, idly sketching Aziraphale in profile as quietly as possible. It was important to get that little mischievous glint in his eye. And make assumptions about what he looked like without the clothes.

"Mm?" Crowley looked up and closed his sketchbook, sliding the pencil in above his ear. "Signature? What, like, from van Dyck? So it's the real deal?"

“No, don’t be silly, dear boy. The signature of the forger, as to speak.” Aziraphale licked two of his fingers clean, wiping them with a handkerchief he always carried around and picked up his notes. “The brushwork gives it away. It’s hard to tell, but at some areas…well. Right, if you look at the fake van Dyck.”

Crowley bristled at that and couldn’t comment as to why. He did his best to look bored but not entirely out of the conversation. It was an important balance to keep. Mostly helped when he put his sunglasses back down, but that just obscured looking at the brushwork. Bloody brushwork.

Bloody sunglasses, too! How’s a fellow supposed to see what Aziraphale’s talking about while wearing them? But it would be rude to remove them, so Aziraphale just huffed and held up his notes. He did steal the pencil behind Crowley’s ear to point out at the painting itself.

“Here. Do you see it?”

What Crowley saw was his pencil bobbing in Aziraphale’s hand and the hot spot behind his ear from where Aziraphale took it. Cheek!

“I’m fairly certain that the person doing this is ambidextrous. I am myself, to a certain degree and I recognize the change in the strokes.” Aziraphale held his pilfered pencil like a brush. “Allow me.” The nib of the pencil was close enough to demonstrate what he meant, dragging it across the canvas this way, then switching hands to demonstrate another. “I guess they must have been standing. This would be the most convenient at this height. Our forger tends to pull the brush like this....and upon reaching a certain angle, switching to the other hand to do this.”

Aziraphale dearly hoped his point came across. All unpleasantries aside, this man _was_ an art merchant, and artist himself, as Aziraphale had heard. He looked up Crowley with pure excitement. It was the teaching he liked. Never suited for a room full of students, but the teaching…. Though it might be some small amount of gloating, too, after he’d solved a puzzle.

“It really comes in handy, to be able to work like this. And as I said before, this person is a real artist. The technique is exquisite but...I would say the artist in that person planted the seed of their own destruction in this forgery. No one can make an indistinguishable copy of something, as I already said. But it is sheer remarkable how close this is. And the colors....”

"You can read all that in a brush stroke?" Crowley asked, trying to remember if he had accidentally showed off he was ambidextrous recently and if the conservator might catch on. "I mean...do we know? van Dyck wasn't...y'know...didn't swing both ways? With his hands?" He felt stupid just for saying it, but he felt a little stupid when Aziraphale took his pencil away. _Still_ felt stupid! It was the briefest of contact and he hadn't expected how it might make his stomach flip at the touch.

The conservator frowned. He was going to be stubborn about this theory. With another quick demonstration of his hand, up stroke, down stroke, switch hands, he looked back up at Crowley for approval. When none was given to his theory, Aziraphale strode over to the table, where his notebook still lay open, and turned it around so Crowley could see what he was doing.

“I can. See, Rubens has a stroke like this...” he started to imitate brushstrokes as good as possible with a pencil. “And van Dyck, his student, demonstrates a similar one. Like this.” He made two different patches of hatching, looking down at the page in concentration. “It’s the angle. Their slightly different depending on the dominant hand. Now, using both hands to do this looks something like this.”

Aziraphale started a third patch, stopped halfway and changed from using his right to his left hand. Sure, it was not as good as the technique used on the actual paintings, but enough to show someone who knew one or two things about drawing techniques what his point was. He looked up again, eyes shining. This was all so very exiting!

Anthony looked up as well, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. He was fucked!

"Right. That's...." He ran his tongue behind his teeth, thinking a moment. "I mean, it's an interesting theory. Really is. Bit absurd? Actually?" Crowley pursed his lips, still panicking and going for the route to dismantle this theory before it started. "I mean, have _you_ painted before, Mr. Fell? Brush strokes go all over the place. You seen any of those old black and white videos of Monet? Hand going around like mad, actually. It's...I mean...we just don't know. And how do you explain the, uh, the sales? Lots of these pieces have a long history attached to them already."

Aziraphale’s shoulders slumped a little. He was quite pleased with this discovery and all he knew about technique and the old masters. It was a sound conclusion. He should have known that Crowley would try to snub his discovery. Of course. He straightened his posture again, determination claiming his features.

“I have, actually. Can hardly become a conservator without knowing the basics of traditional painting. And I’ve seen those videos, yes. But your argument falls at the start, dear boy.”

It was not the first time Aziraphale had called him that today. Anthony’s hand went behind his back to ball into a tight fist at the informal moniker. Well, that, and that he was losing this argument. He hated losing. It’s why he never played a game he couldn’t cheat.

“How so?”

“That’s Monet’s undistinguishable way of painting. Can’t compare a Monet to a van Dyck. Not per brush stroke. Not like you can between the real and the fake. I _know_ how Rubens and van Dyck worked. I know that this isn’t it. And for the sales, the forger could be operating for years now. We have established that they are good but sooner or later, it was bound to happen that it would be discovered. Honestly, I have half a mind to think they must be working alone just to keep someone else from mucking it up, but that seems—”

Aziraphale caught himself. He wanted to say “remarkable” again, but one should not compliment a criminal. Not so often at least. “Lonely,” he added weakly and glanced aside for a moment before he brightened again.

“See here...” In another desperate attempt to prove himself, Aziraphale dragged the lanky man over by the wrist. His grip was firm, but nothing too harsh. “Look at the clothing. I would say that this one was one of his earlier attempts. Good, but still a bit green. The strokes not as smooth as the original van Dyck, but the same movement. They developed, like the old masters did but with their own hand always on display!”

Right. The copy of the portrait of Isabella Brant. It was, in theory, an easier piece to start on. An earlier work of van Dyck's, while still learning from Rubens. It had a slightly softer, looser brushstroke, while the corset of the gown had tight details of gold. He thought perhaps he could get away with still learning the trade, a practice copy, but had been so cocky and pleased with himself that he started his schemes of selling early on. That was now coming on almost 20 years ago. Aziraphale wasn't wrong. In the game long enough, you can make your own paper trail stretch as long as you need. And Crowley both admired and _loathed_ Aziraphale for every point he got right.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, no...I mean. Well, but this is...1621? Early stuff. He didn't really come into his own until, you know...maybe 7...8 years later? But...yeah. Yeah, I mean...it's a good theory." Oh, Crowley was screwed. He was screwed!

Aziraphale reveled that moment of triumph. After all the comments and rude behavior of the gallery owner, he had put a foot down and showed that he was, indeed, a class of his own when it came to expertise. The feeling wouldn’t stay long, though. Crowley looked miserable all of a sudden, the color draining out of his face. As much as Azirpahale wanted to not care, he couldn’t help.

“Mr. Crowley...is everything alright? You’re getting pale.” He gently took Crowley’s arm, maneuvering him over to the chair that was more an art piece that furniture. He slowly sat him down, crouching in front of the redhead with a concerned look. “Have you eaten anything? Do you want something to drink?”

"Drink?" Anthony was a bit surprised by Aziraphale's care, but he was too busy freaking out to cover for himself. _Be cool. Be cool!_ He probably just looked sick. He could work with that. "Uh... I mean. I had that scone. It's really...no big deal. I think I'm alright. I mean, hell, I should be offering you a drink or...or something. Wow, you really cracked it. Case closed. Shit." He reached up and momentarily shoved his sunglasses up into his hair, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands, and laughed against his own wrists.

The gesture was so _vulnerable_ , Aziraphale felt like it was improper to witness. He was at a loss here. The man in front of him looked like he needed comfort in some way but Aziraphale had no idea how to do that. His hand came up, patting Crowley's shoulder awkwardly. Perhaps he was just upset that they wouldn’t work together longer? Perhaps Crowley found some joy in this sort’ve thing. Some company. He should be kinder to the man, even if he was a bit of a rogue.

"I wouldn't say that. Haven't found the source yet, have we? Where's your kitchen, dear boy?"

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

The sudden change in Crowley's demeanor had left Aziraphale in a shock that let his grudge slide into the background. Even his usual use of endearments was slipping back.

The sudden in change in _Aziraphale's_ demeanor knocked Anthony off his game. His private, fuck-everybody-over sort've game, maybe, but he was shocked enough that he just pointed off towards the right.

"First door down that hall. Toilets on the right, too, if you need it." He sighed and sat back, letting his sunglasses fall to his nose, before he perked up again. "Not the third." Or the fourth, oh god, what if Aziraphale went through the wrong door? Then he might see.... "You know what? Easier if I show you, yeah? Come on."

“But you’re not feeling well and I insist—”

Aziraphale tried to protest, but the lanky figure was up as fast as snake. Crowley hopped up, shaking out his nerves in the process. Crowley lead Aziraphale back through his gallery towards the private hallway generally roped off from the public when he was having any sort of showing. Didn't need people poking around in his private things and definitely didn't need them to see where he painted his copies. Or, more embarrassing, his indoor garden.

The private section of the gallery was as minimalistic as the rest, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Aziraphale understood that Crowley did not wish him to accidentally snoop into some parts of it; he wouldn’t want this to happen either if they were at _his_ workshop. The walls were blank in the hallway, which was a little disappointing. Seeing what kind of art people used to show in their own haven spoke a lot about them.

“Do you also live here, Mr. Crowley?” They had reached the kitchen that looked like it had never been used since it was built in. Wrong, of course, but Crowley was meticulous with his cleaning as he was with his forgeries. Azirpahale just walked in and searched for some glasses. They were _fancy_ ones as well, a designer collection maybe. Of course they were. He filled one up with tap water and offered it Crowley to take.

"I've a loft," Anthony answered, taking the glass from Aziraphale. "Yeah, thanks. Truly. Cheers."

He blinked and reprimanded himself for being a complete loon before he just downed the water like one does a shot, sighing with relief afterwards. He tapped the glass and leaned back against the counter, making himself smooth out. Be cool. Nonchalant. Not a care in the whole bloody world.

"So. Mr. Brilliant Conservator." Anthony drummed his fingers idly behind his back, smiling at Aziraphale like they'd been chummy for decades. "You look like you should be working for the Royal Collection or the Tate, but I've not seen your name crop up in the circles. You're private, yeah?" He set the glass down beside him and crossed his arms and ankles at the same time, making himself an even leaner black line from shoulders to toes. "How'd you get into it? Why restore all these old pieces that just wanna crumble away on their own if nobody took care of them?"

Aziraphale sipped his own water, eying Crowley from the side. There it was again, that arrogant behavior, thrown over like a coat or, even more fitting, an armor. Either to protect or to attack. That was depending on the situation, he figured. But for that short moment, there had been something quite... genuine and vulnerable that had set itself right into the stuffy man’s mind.

“Once upon a time.” Yes, the perfect way to explain himself. Aziraphale continued anyways. “I was about to start a career as a painter. If it would have gone the way my parents had intended.” He took another sip and looked into the glass, reminiscing. “I had a scholarship for the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. I already loved the works of the old masters and had a particular interest in the craft of restoration back then, more regarding books though. But I—” He fumbled, looking particularly distraught, before he swallowed his regrets. “I gave it away.”

Maybe Aziraphale’s cheeks sported a little color. Why he was so open about this detail of his past was a mystery to him, regarding how he’d been treated by that man just hours ago. But now it was out. Bugger that.

"You what?"

Anthony leaned closer, his surprise hidden only by perhaps the sunglasses, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

A scholarship. For the École des Beaux-Arts. And this man just...just gave that away?

Crowley thought he would never have gotten in if it hadn't been for a scholarship he felt he had to practically _kill_ for. Well, short of kill for. Murder was yet one of the many sins he had not committed. But still! And, even then, his time at university had been cut short because _apparently_ he had been an annoying bastard who had asked too many questions on the old techniques even though that's the _point_ of university and, after a while, he'd just slowly dropped out.

“I gave it away!” The conservator blurted out, a little desperate. “Look, I was a decent artist but the reason I got that scholarship wasn’t as much my skill as the connections of my family! I saw the works of the other person that was about to get interviewed after me and they had real talent! I already was more into preserving what’s there, you know, so I politely declined and hinted to the real talent. I just told my parents that, despite their efforts, I wasn’t cut out for it. I’d go it on my own and whoever that poor fellow was that was interviewed after me…I sincerely hope they got it.”

Embarrassment had tinged his face pink and Azirpahale clutched his glass for dear life. Surely, he would be made fun of any second. He already cursed himself for presenting this on a golden platter, just there for Crowley to take and twist to make him regret ever telling it. He dared to take a glance at the man, waiting for the judgement.

Aziraphale got it with Crowley setting his glass down and covering his mouth to hide the little laugh that was threatening to spill out. He shook his head, considering everything this anxious mess of a man was, and turned to open the small antique-looking fridge beside him.

"We need something stronger than water, actually," Crowley said, poking through his supplies. "Do you do beer, Mr. Fell?" Anthony stood up and looked over his shoulder. "I should also have a really nice merlot, if that's more your speed."

To his surprise, there wasn’t any malicious glee in the almost laugh. It surprised Aziraphale even more when he was offered a drink. What had happened? Confusion, that’s what. And perhaps a little intrigue. Aziraphale just blinked dumbly in his host’s direction.

“I take the merlot, thank you.” His voice was still puzzled. Was Crowley pursuing a plan there? Well... there was the prospect of a good wine, so Aziraphale was willing to take the risk.

Crowley nodded, shut the fridge, and padded over to his half-supplied wine collection he kept in the cupboard. He was a man of fine but simple tastes and apparently one for takeout, as, again, there were few supplies left after he had done his stress baking that morning. He still had fancy glasses to pour the wine into, at least. Few groceries but a working dishwasher. What a catch.

Crowley remained quiet as he continued to set them up for a drink, trying not to betray the myriad of thoughts currently plaguing him and finally settling on what would hopefully be the safest. And possibly most embarrassing? Short of incriminating himself currently, at least.

"I went to École des Beaux-Arts. In Paris. I don't know if you knew that," Crowley started, swirling his glass not because he wanted the wine to breathe, though he would take that observation from Aziraphale because he thought it made him look sophisticated. It was just something to do with his hands. "I went for...a half a year? Barely, I mean, I was in desperate need of a scholarship and either way, it didn't work out. We didn't...fit. Did a couple pieces on the Bastille to, you know, pander to them, I guess? For my entrance exhibit. But." He sighed into his glass and tipped it up to take a gulp, not really savoring it, again, just using it as a distraction. "We could have worked together sooner. Probably would have hated me then, too."

He laughed around the slightly tight swallow and watched Aziraphale again. This was stupid. This conservator wasn't above him! And he had been operating for two decades without being found out. This should not worry him. It wasn't going to worry him! He decided he was still going to best this man - and bed this man? a hate-fuck is always in the cards - and that would be that!

Crowley’s whole attitude was still off in a way and Aziraphale took his glass with the caution of someone picking up a slice of meat in front of a sleeping wild animal. He mirrored the swirling and inhaled the aroma of the wine. Not bad.

“Oh, what a coincidence,” he started and stopped right after, listening to the rest. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline as the gears were starting to grind behind his wide blue eyes. Sure, plenty of people in the art industry might have gone and got an education in Paris. At the exact same institute. Could always have been another year, even. Were they the same age? They could be. Perhaps two years apart, maximum. Maybe. Possibly?

The conservator swallowed visibly, trying to get his thoughts in order and say something, for God’s sake.

“I....” Stumbled at the start. He tried again. “I’m sorry that it didn’t work out for you there. Always heard that it was very strict and all that. And hate is such a strong word, Mr. Crowley. It’s not like you tried to win me over.” Aziraphale took a gulp from his glass. “Seriously, you were actively trying to irritate me on every move.”

Crowley couldn’t help a smile at that. He opened his mouth, but was quickly cut off.

“But hate? No. _Irritating_. I think that’s a much better word.”

Somehow, this had turned to a more playful tone. Aziraphale’s mind was still spinning around the bit with Paris and the scholarship though. Could it be, after over twenty years, that he had met the person with all that talent? And under the current circumstances, this sounded like the ridiculous plot of a Hollywood film production. Well, only one way to find out, wasn’t there?

“How old are you...?”

"That's a bit forward."

Crowley's eyebrows came together but he laughed, watching Aziraphale. He finished the cup and turned away to pour himself another, feeling that gentle warmth swim across his shoulders that he liked.

"I'm 48," he answered pretending to check the cupboard for some nibble of sorts to go with their day drinking, which seemed the most appropriate way to do anything in a gallery, actually.

Aziraphale made an acknowledging sound and emptied his glass as well, placing it on the counter to get another poured. "It was you, wasn’t it?”

“What was?”

“The painting of the boy? The one with the apple? The fire?”

Aziraphale nervously fidgeted with his hands, twisting the ring on his pinky finger. So, this was the person he'd given his scholarship to. He figured that he should be angry or at least offended that this gift had not been appreciated. But he couldn't. Art schools and institutes were a battlefield. Aziraphale had actually been relieved to not be thrown in there, having 'enjoyed' a strict and classical education all along. People mostly tended to romanticize the studies of art, but it was a tough business, where everyone tried to outdo the other. A strange feeling overtook him. He was suddenly _interested_ in this man. Despite everything he'd shown of himself so far, Crowley didn't make any fun of him, opened up even. He was a wandering contradiction.

Crowley finally laughed, truly, not that practiced little derisive chuckle he had perfected, but a surprised, honest, earnest laugh. It was him. Figured it out, all on his own. Aziraphale, a regular fucking wonderboy detective. No, that wasn't far. They were both almost 50. He scrunched his face and continued to laugh until he got himself back under control, clearing his throat, and opened up his cupboard completely.

"You're too smart for your own good, Aziraphale."

It was a nice sound. More than nice. First, the laugh startled the conservator a little and he felt dumb to not have asked this right away, but then it was infectious, making his lips curl up. Eventually, Aziraphale was chuckling, even though he wore a sheepish expression. What an odd world they lived in. The sound of his own name, spoken without mockery was nice as well and made the blonde man blush, just a teeny tiny bit. Really, he shouldn’t be affected by something like this. Just that he’d said Aziraphale’s name right on the first try.

Well. Crowley bounced the name around in his mouth with as much care as a marble on a sidewalk. But it was the thought that counts.

“I suppose I am,” he answered with much sarcasm, pouring himself another glass.

"We should get takeout. And open more bottles. You down, or do you need to be somewhere later?"

“The only place I ought to be is my own bed.” Crowley turned, but Aziraphale was studying his pocket watch. “And that’s not any time soon, I should think. It’s only…goodness.” The day had gotten away from him, hadn’t it? While studying the paintings? “Half past four?” Well, it was a day well spent, so he wouldn’t ruminate on it. “I don’t see me needed there in the next eight hours or so. I have all my deadlines and appointments in order for the time I’m needed on the case. Takeout sounds good. And to avoid you not eating this time, I would say that you choose the kind of food we’ll be having. I’m game with everything.” He didn’t even bother to point out that it was too early for another bottle of wine. Azirpahale definitely needed more wine after this rollercoaster of a day.

Crowley was never going to get that whole "before 5 o'clock" schtick people stuck to and maybe that made him an alcoholic, but he sold a Rubens copy to some wealthy socialite three months ago for enough money to pay for his gallery for the rest of the year. So. Who's complaining about lifestyles now?

Crowley got out his phone and set out orders for Greek food from a cafe downtown that he loved so dearly and said nothing but kind things about, made clearer by the way he spoke to Jessie, the woman who often took his order. She made certain he didn't die of starvation on more than one occasion. And then he pulled just five more bottles out to join with the first, with a choice if red's and blends and one (1) white. Clearly not his favorite. But it was, er, polite. To have options. A little overzealous, yes, but Aziraphale had spoken about his bed for long enough that Crowley was feeling funny about it.

"And I can't tempt you with a beer?" Like they didn't have options. But they did head back out to a little sitting area next to the kitchen where there were proper couches to lounge on, far more comfortable than counters or the desk and its throne.

Some time and a late lunch later, not all of the bottles were empty but _most_. Neither of them was able to tell how late it was and none gave a damn, thank you. Luckily, some of the Grecian food had been greasy enough to soak up a good portion of the alcohol. However, it did not hinder the two men to still get positively sloshed. Aziraphale had slid down the couch at one point, only his arms keeping him connected to the furniture. He had lost track of what they had been talking about. Again.

"Anthony, my dear boy," he started with a deep frown, interrupted by a hiccup. "What were you saying again?"

"Mm?" Anthony was sprawled out on half the couch, one of his legs dangling up over the back, and his hands neatly folded like a cartoon character in a coffin across his chest. "'S was takin' about...donuts." No, that wasn't right. "No, dolphins. No!" He snapped his fingers a few times besides his head, trying to jog back to the point where they had left off and, the only way to do so was to sit up and plant both naked feet smack dab on the cold cement. Anthony whimpered in his pickled state and curled back up on the couch. That was why he'd been sitting like that. "No, no, my point is....is dolphins. Dauphin. ... _van Dam._ Damnit, bloody...van Dam. Right? Reggienessniss...Rejin...reg...van Dam. Ambidextrous! Bea _U_ tiful portraits. Both hands. Ope! How you put that in your strokes and smoke it, mm?"

Honestly, the poor man needed another veggie kebob and some water, but he just clapped his hands together and pointed like he'd made some bold claim about some Netherlands artist who can use both hands to paint at the same time. In the end? It was just nonsense.

Aziraphale answered with a snort first and nursed the pathetic dregs of wine in his glass. His way of articulation might give the illusion of him being less affected by the alcohol, which frankly wasn't true. He just plucked his words more carefully, which made him speak slower and gave Anthony a chance to overreact with his face.

"I do not smoke," he eventually answered with a frown. Crowley laughed and Aziraphale frowned further. "It's really handy, using two hands at a time. Could do one stroke there, one there on another..." Aziraphale spread his arms, looking as gracious as an albatross who was about to take flight, with his hands wagging. "Makes it all faster. But oooooh the brushstrokes. Beautiful brushstrokes... Like 'em better than the original. Such a clever clever criminal..." Even in this state, nothing could bring Aziraphale off his theory of finding the forgers signature technique. He sighed moonily. His adoration for the skill on display was only growing now, floating out of him with no boundaries to hold it. " A little like a Robin Hood of arts, this situation, hm? Takes the money from the rich, revenge of the bou.. Bourgoi… Booyog…Buh…."

“Borgies,” Anthony answered helpfully, and Aziraphale raised a hand, eyes closed in concentration and lips puckered in a cartoonish attempt of a kiss.

"The common people," Aziraphale settled on at last.

“Yeh.”

“Yes.”

The conservator got quiet again for a moment, slumping a little more in his position, the hem of his trousers rucking up so that his tartan socks were on display. Having finished this train of thought, another slowly rolled into his mind.

"Glad I didn't go to Paris. My French is _désastreux_.” Anthony snorted so hard, Aziraphale thought he had coughed up something, and looked back at him. “Almost got in trouble for a crêpe. Oh, but there are only decent ones in Paris..." He sighed again, wistfully this time and put his chin near his drinking companion. "What did you do after Paris, dear boy?"

 _Dear boy._ Shouldn't make Anthony swoon so much, now, should it? Shouldn't make him feel all warm and bubbly? Well, no, maybe the alcohol could be blamed for a large portion of that, surely.

"Didn't eat crêpes for a start," Anthony answered and laughed at himself, almost tumbling off the sofa as he did so. To catch himself, he leaned back over towards Aziraphale and reached for the armchair that Aziraphale had migrated into. That was his prerogative of course but it made touching the man harder when Anthony wanted to make a point by slapping Aziraphale's shoulder or his knee or something. Friendly like. As one does when imbibing copious amounts of wine together for a good few hours and working on solving a case with both criminal and detective. Kinda. In a way. Roleplaying as a couple was always fun in theory; read about it in magazines to spice up sex life and all. _Christ,_ Crowley was drunk. He blinked and snaked even closer, resting his head on the sofa's arm rest, pillowing it with his own arms, and closing his eyes. His hair was getting to be a mess, actually, and he thought about taking it down and letting his scalp relax, but now he'd made himself comfortable on his arms. What was he talking about? Right.

"I c'n make 'em, y'know. Crêpes. Got a few, mm...reciprocees. Cooking. I like cooking. Not's much as _painting._ " He opened his eyes to watch Aziraphale again, breathing a little heavier, slower, sleepier. " _You_ like painting. You like how painting's painted. Painterly-like."

"Mhhh yer scones were scrummy. Crêpes would be lovely. You still paint? Yes I do very much like painterly paintings painted... Hee!" Aziraphale giggled, proud of his oratorial prowess. He let his head fall against the cushion behind him, studying the slumped heap of limbs and red hair beside him. " Does makes the world brighter, yes? Paintings. Gives you the oppur... Oppertity to express yourself. Sometimes you can't do that on the outside so you have to bring the inside to the..." he gestured vaguely with his hand, making waving motions from his body to the open space of the studio. Crowley would have followed Aziraphale’s hands like he was a maestro of a fantastic orchestra, but that would just make him dizzy. So he stayed slumped.

"You're not so bad...." Aziraphale said eventually, a smile on his bliss-drunken face. “Thought you were a... an arrogant bastard. Trying to degrade me. Now you're just as silly drunk as I am." He giggled again, scrunching up his nose. "Ya asked if I was more private, yes? Have... Have worked for the museum. The big one. Big old bugger museum..."

Anthony made a face like he had just slurped up something particularly sour, scraping his tongue out of his mouth.

"Must've been boooooring," he answered, rolling up and finally tugging on the band in his hair, moaning as he fluffed out his hair and flopping back down again, deflated. "Never wanna be stuck in a boring museum. Couldn't. Prison. Fuck prison."

He'd just gone and reminded himself of prison as a general concept and wondered what he was going to look like himself behind bars. Could he swing it to get a Hannibal style cell? With supplies to draw? He'd probably just go mad, wouldn't he? Ugh, miserable thought for a miserable man.

Another snort. But his eyes were fixed on the flaming locks, now freed and fanning out. They looked pretty. And silky. Would they feel silky?

"Wasn't bad. Got yelled at though. Do not like to get yelled at. So, I opened up my own bus’nss. You're a free ghost then huh? No. Not…er…entity? No, spirit!" A triumphant smile bloomed on his face. Aziraphale rolled the rest of his body to the side and watched Anthony's – because they were on drunken first name basis now – hair intensely. He then reached out and caught a strand between his fingers.

"Oh.... Soft indeed," he breathed. It was delightful. He picked up another, a little curl around his index finger. "Will you show me? A painting? From you, not the others. Won't be fooled, y’know."

"Plnmnmnmmm mnmmm," Anthony answered, his face smashed into the armchair. Course that didn't come out right. He sighed and turned his head, secretly staring wide-eyed at Aziraphale's hand so close to his head. "Play. With m'hair some more. And I will," he reiterated, trying to be as clear and to the point as possible. It was absolutely a tease. There was no way stuffy Aziraphale was going to do such a thing.

Aziraphale giggled. A 48 year old man shouldn't giggle this much. But he did, as well as winding that strand around his plump finger.

"Mine is all... Bouncy and untame-tameable."

"Bouncy is, y'know...good t'touch too." 

This felt nice. Crowley’s hair was like a cashmere scarf running through his fingers. Aziraphale started to hum watching the movement of the hair. "I won't forget."

Anthony turned his face down into his arms, but it dug his sunglasses into the bridge of his nose and scraped his eyebrows, so he lifted himself up enough to remove them and fling them behind him back onto the couch cushion, getting comfortable with his face hidden away behind hair and forearms. He could not believe that Aziraphale was actually touching his hair. Just a curl, really, and only towards the end, but it was like a spark across a wire travelling from Aziraphale's fingertip all the way to his scalp. If Aziraphale actually played with his hair, truly, got his hands all tangled up in it, Anthony was not even sure what he would do. Something awful, probably. So, he gripped his forearms and started counting down from 20 with intent to get up and go find one of his simpler paintings to show off to Aziraphale, appease him and all. He promised. Or he said, and Anthony was not at all a man of his word, but he was feeling generous to Aziraphale tonight.

The slightly twisting sensation of the finger stopped slowly, the hair sliding off it. The movement had been so soothing, that Aziraphale’s eyes had shut for good and he was already snoring peacefully.

So much for the art.

Aziraphale’s hand was resting on the couch, just right next to Anthony's crossed arms. Surely, this position would break his spine by tomorrow morning, but a drunken person was actually able to sleep in every position, not unlike a cat.

Crowley stayed a half-sloped 'L' long enough that he had missed the beginning of Aziraphale's snoring. It wasn't until he snorted slightly on his own that he curled up on the couch, which would be much better for himself come morning. And morning did come. And left, trudging right on to afternoon, when one of their phones, then the other, went off with a clamor in the large cement gallery, ringing like huge bells that drove nails right into Crowley's eyes so hard he almost tried to get under the couch cushion to get away from it.

Aziraphale had a mutual feeling about the audacity of their phones ringing. He groaned, a deeply disgruntled kind of groan, and pat around the couch blindly, trying to find just one source of this terror. He eventually found something. It was a hooked nose. The conservator managed to lift his hand ever so slightly and found himself draped along the edge of the couch, legs on the ground. His rump was cold and he couldn’t even feel his legs from the calves down. His hand was unceremoniously placed on one Anthony Crowley’s face, who seemed strangely undisturbed by it. A little further behind him was a phone. Aziraphale grabbed it, not taking any hint of which one it was. He just pressed the green, slightly familiar button.

“Hello?” He rasped into the receiver. Satan’s bollocks, his mouth and throat felt like someone had filled them with cat litter.

"Mr...Crowley?" a man asked on the other line. "You sound terrible." If Aziraphale picked his face away from the screen, he might see the JON GABRIEL to identify who the number was. "Listen. Me and the boys are almost to your gallery to check up on your progress. We hope your meeting with Mr. Fell was enlightening? We really want to move on this, since the sale was recent enough. Don’t want to give him a chance to flee, you know. Fingers crossed the perpetrator is close by."

Crowley, laying nearby, groaned as well and rolled over to his side, scrubbing his nose. Oh, he felt like death.

“Perpetrator. Enlightened...right,” Aziraphale stammered, his brain sluggishly catching up. “Everything’s jolly good,” he added for good measure and hung up.

Grunting against the pain of existence, Aziraphale tried to move. Every muscle, every fiber ached. He was sure his bum had frozen off. Eventually, he made it half up the couch, shaking the dark heap that was the gallery owner.

“Anthony,” he croaked. His own voice rang as an echo in his head and made him nauseous. “Anthony. That was Gabriel. Get up.”

"No."

Even with his firm protest, Anthony rolled over to his side, tugging his cheek up when his hair got stuck all over his face. He tossed it back over his head and sat up, breathing heavily towards his knees. Oh, they had sobered up. Fine and well. But the bloody hangover was going to kill him. He glanced over to see how Aziraphale was fairing and held up a hand, shielding against the low light coming through one of the windows. It had been highlighting Aziraphale's shocking white hair as he shifted in his seat, making it almost a halo with his bleary, sleepy, half-drunk eyes.

"'m gonna go be sick," Anthony announced, standing up and immediately sitting down again. "Yep. Gonna...go be sick. And I'll. I'll get us something." Something with carbs and meat and grease to soak up the worst of their ailments. He got up and staggered a bit away from the couch, moving like a broken man, when the buzz sang out again through his gallery of someone stabbing the hidden buzzer outside the back door. "Bloody _chriiiiiIIIST!_ " He reached and patted his butt for his phone, which was still sitting with Aziraphale the goddamn Glowing Angel in his Armchair. His screen flashed again from another text from Gabriel, alerting him that he was outside. The buzzer went off again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh the woes of a hangover. You know what you do with a hangover? You give a very special gift to an annoying conservator. That's what you do.

The sharp sound from the doorbell zipped through Aziraphale’s head like a sharpened stone, leaving a feeling like he’d been cut in half. Unfortunately, no one had ended his dreadful existence from the moment he woke with a hangover to now. Aziraphale stared down at the too bright text, squinting his eyes to get a hint of it.

“As much as I would like to join you in being....sick….” He tried to stifle a burp. “I do fear that this is Interpol on your doormat. Oh Lord, please kill me.”

Aziraphale had tried to stand up, which only barley worked out with the support of the armchair. He absentmindedly massaged one buttock with the hope of getting some circulation back in. The buzzing continued, like an angry hive of wasps. With another groan and much cursing under his breath, Aziraphale made his way over to Anthony and even past him to answer the door. The daylight was unyielding and brutal, stinging in the conservators eyes like God’s judgment. The Interpol team were more like the looming executioners, here for their Last Judgment.

“Good Morning?” Aziraphale tried.

"Mr. Fell! Excellent!"

Gabriel stepped forward in the light, cutting out a severe shadow that did not do enough to blot out the sun. Anthony, behind Aziraphale, tossed up an arm in hopes of protecting himself from the harsh cruelty of daylight, some vaudeville villain in the background. A cape would have been better at the moment.

"I couldn't get a hold of you earlier. Getting into the thick of it, huh?" Gabriel laughed and clapped Aziraphale too hard on the shoulder, then tilted his head curiously. "Late night, Mr. Fell?" It was clearly a joke. Nobody would miss the smell of alcohol rolling off them like a visible miasma. Gabriel was trying to be polite by not mentioning it outright, actually. But a comment couldn't be missed.

Jon Gabriel’s voice we’re like the trumpets of Jericho, in Aziraphale’s humble opinion. He winced, knees bucking a little under the heavy clap on the shoulder. Even in his current state, Aziraphale was able to hear the silent judgment in the words.

“Yes, well. No rest for the....” Aziraphale blinked, trying to take in the shape of their intruders completely. “Good. I suppose.”

"Mr. Gabriel," Crowley groaned from the shadows behind Aziraphale, stepping in closer to rescue the poor man. "Do come in. Please."

Aziraphale was most grateful for Anthony coming to his aide, his mouth still dry and like it had decided to grow a reverse beard up along his tongue.

The conservator stepped aside to let their broad American associate. God, this was the worst timing for such an audit. Maybe, they shouldn’t have cleared almost all of Anthony’s wine cupboard. But things were done, wine had been downed and nonsense had been exchanged. Most was not remembered.

“We actually made progress, despite our,” Aziraphale started and simply gestered at the two of them. He could be embarrassed about how he was presented later. When his head wasn’t threatening to split open and spill out little moss balls with glass teeth.

"Excellent! We were curious about your report, I won't lie."

Gabriel seemed to just go ahead and make himself comfortable, didn't he, jumping right in like that. Stepping in, heading _right_ over to the forgeries. Anthony wanted to snark something, but he opened his mouth and immediately made a regretful hurling sound, catching himself just at the last minute by covering his mouth with the back of his hand and taking a few deep breaths.

Fuck. Them. And the stone they walked on.

"Obviously the scans came up with something, but what do you think, Mr. Fell? And Mr. Crowley, don't think I'm not excited to hear what you found looking at the paper trail. Come on, gentlemen, step lively!"

Aziraphale got over to Anthony, looking at Gabriel, who was no less a disgusting shiny and overly false polite being of righteousness in front of them. A quick, if no less dizzy glance over to Anthony, Aziraphale tried to tell him something inaudibly along the lines of _I won’t tell anybody and know a place to hide the body._

But, as murder wouldn’t help their headaches and it was too much of an effort right now, it seemed appropriate to just answer. Something.

“Report, right.” Aziraphale slowly straightened his posture as much as possible without throwing up. “I found something like a signature in their technique. All in those pieces. I was even able to distinguish which of them were earlier pieces. As for the sales.” He turned to Anthony again. He did not look like he would be able to say something without spilling and no one wanted _that_. “There was nothing suspicious so far.”

Anthony straightened up a little too. Aziraphale had covered for him. And even just that little look. They could commit murder together! If he didn't feel like death, he would have laughed. Instead, he shored himself up and came closer to take half the attention of Gabriel and let the big bastard ramble excitedly at him about the reports of the chemicals they found in the paint and a trail that contained contaminants that made them certain it had to be from England, at least.

"Maybe even London!" Gabriel beamed. "We could be so lucky."

"Mm. Lucky. Yeah," Anthony answered, shielding his eyes again. Where the _fuck_ where his sunglasses? He was squinting so badly right now from the devilish sunlight.

"And I need _you_ to keep a sharp eye. Right? I'm sure you'll crack who sold the fake, Anthony. You're good with this. I’ve seen your tract record."

"Record?" Anthony swallowed again and struggled to look up.

"Oh, I've heard the rumors. Got your fingers in a lot of pies." Gabriel's light eyes twinkled slightly. Was he threatening Anthony? He honestly could not tell.

Aziraphale had wandered off, trying to collect his phone and only perked up when ‘Records’ were mentioned. So, there was more to Anthony than what he had wanted to give away and made him valuable to the investigation. No, more like he tried to come off as this in the first place but only _ironically_ or something. Collecting his phone at last with a parting trinket from the couch, the conservator trotted over again. His interruption was hardly noticed as he looked between the two men. There was a peculiar and irritated look on Anthony’s face. He cleared his throat to get their attention once more.

“Like I said,” Aziraphale started, “ _we_ checked it. Three times. And back to my discovery, I was already absolutely positive about the brushwork and everything. So, if the forger is located in London, or at least his dealer, they certainly would not operate too close to the actual scene but also not too far, wouldn’t they? I mean, such a work needs weeks or months nowadays and a good workspace. They wouldn’t just do it right in an atelier like this one.” He gestured around and lifted a hand, holding the sunglasses out in Anthony’s direction.

Crowley startled slightly, until he recognized his own sunglasses, and reached for them with a quiet, "Thank you."

"You would think," Gabriel said, looking around as well. "But, hey, they might be an artistic genius, as you said, and a complete idiot in the same breadth, huh? Doesn't seem so farfetched."

"I'm going to make coffee," Crowley announced dourly, giving a little half-salute to Gabriel.

"I think you need it," Gabriel said with his charming, practiced smile, and turned back to the paintings, taking them in again with an appraising eye. "Right. Walk me through it."

Anthony didn't mean to abandon Aziraphale. The coffee really did seem like a good idea. But he couldn't stand around like that with his head knocked sideways. He'd apologize to Aziraphale in ten minutes _with_ coffee. And creamer, if he liked.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale tried to explain the delicate differences between the hand of van Dyck and Rubens and their talented chiseler. He was right, so his methods to convince Gabriel were the same that he had used on Crowley. Since they were _fact_. To his utmost frustration, Jon Gabriel might have been interested in art at one point, but he was no artist. No clue about technique and all that. Even as the conservator showed him the hatchings to point out that there was ambidexterity involved, there was not too much of a delighted reaction like he so sorely desired. Aziraphale sighed deeply. He was nursing a tremendous headache, his whole body hurt in place he didn’t even know existed and this ignorant inspector was giving him the feeling that he had just discovered that Van Gogh used an alteration of pointillism.

“So...that’s what I was able to detect.” He closed his eyes a moment, wringing his hands. He felt like he was back in school, awaiting his grades for an oral exam.

Jon Gabriel nodded slowly, moving his head back and forth as he scanned the seven paintings, saying nothing for a while. Long enough for Anthony, even, to slink back into the room and wait slightly off to the side, studying in his own way.

"Yes!" Gabriel clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder again, jostling him, and laughed as that big flat hand rocked him slightly back and forth. "Truly astounding! Do you have any of that written up? Listen. Type it up. Email me. You have my card? He has my card." Gabriel pointed at Anthony, not even looking at him but apparently aware he had returned. "Email it. I'm going to send it to the boys. This is fantastic, Mr. Fell! I really think you have something here!"

Crowley winced, drawing his own mug up to his forehead to touch his temple, wishing Jon Gabriel knew anything about regulating the volume of his voice.

"And keep working together over those receipts, Crowley. I really want to see something from you, too. Alright?"

"Nhgh." Crowley shrugged his shoulder up, wishing he was hidden better. "Y-yeah. Yeah. Yes."

“I’ll have everything ready by supper. Now, I can imagine that you are a busy man, Mr. Gabriel. Head inspector and all that. Like I said, my report will be over by supper and Mr. Crowley and me will look into the case further.”

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat in a useless attempt to make himself presentable and waited patiently for the man to disappear with the gentlemen who had waited in the lobby, presumably on orders. He just wanted to be left alone. Or, rather, he was aware Anthony wanted them to be left alone to die in their joint misery.

To their utmost relief, Jon Gabriel really was a busy man right and this wasn’t his only case. Finally shutting the door behind him, Aziraphale leaned against it, a heavy sigh drawn out of his lungs.

“Oh, thank the Lord, I thought he would never leave. One minute longer and I would have myself in prison for murder. Not manslaughter, mind you. Murder. Premeditated and everything.” He turned around and looked at Anthony, holding two mugs. A smile, as much as possible now, lit his face and he walked over. “Thank you. Coffee is a very fine idea right now.”

Anthony snorted through his nose at both Mr. Gabriel being led out of the gallery and at Aziraphale's charming little smile.

"Elixer of life, right?" He held out the cup and waited until he was certain Aziraphale was holding it steadily, then pulled his arm back, crossing it over his chest, relaxing against the wall.

"I would have joined you," Anthony said after a moment's silence, sipping his own coffee. It was not black. He did not have it in him to pretend to enjoy it plain. He needed all the comforts in the world, actually, and it was pale and sugary and hot and perfect. "In the manslaughter. Sorry, not manslaughter. Murder. Straight up murder." He snorted again. "Only straight thing in my life."

Sure, he was almost 50, but it was practically written in the bylaws he needed to make that joke as often as possible, doubly so when he was hungover as he was.

Delighted that his wasn’t black as well, Aziraphale sipped from his coffee several times before speaking again. Only one of his eyebrows rose at the joke, or statement. Why did he drop that now? The anxious machinery started its work with a screech under those almost white curls. Had he said something last night? Had they...? No. No definitely not. They had been pissed last night, no question, but even if most of it all was encompassed in a haze, something like flirting or more would have stuck to Aziraphale’s mind. And it wasn’t like he was that needy, really. Gotten on quite alright for the past…oh, don’t dwell on it.

“How subtle,” Aziraphale finally said with a smirk and continued to enjoy his coffee.

It was an elixir, truly, easing his headache and the terrible feeling in his throat. He sighed and cupped the mug to warm his fingers.

“What a night. I can’t remember half of what we were talking about, to both our benefit I would say. Sooo....thanks for having me, Anthony. If I’m still allowed to call you by your first name that is.”

Strangely, all the grudge that Aziraphale had held against this man had been dissolved in the events of last night. He might piece together their night when he was on his own. The scholarship came to mind…and how Anthony had used said scholarship. Really, in the end, it seemed this tall, dark, and not-so-mysterious gallery owner was less an obnoxious and vile creature and more of a complicated sort who just had a bat habit of being an arse.

Intriguing. That’s what he was. Aziraphale found Anthony Crowley to be quite intriguing.

“I do remember however, that I was promised to see one of your works.”

"How d'you remember anything?" Crowley practically whined, melting back against the wall.

"It's a gift and a curse, I can tell you. I'm prone to remembering a lot, always have been this way."

"Alright, alright. Since I _promised._ "

Anthony was also feeling better with the coffee and just time in general. Worse, he was a bit of an old hat to these sorts of mornings and, simply by practicing, he got over it quicker. He motioned for Aziraphale to follow him, wandering back through his own gallery.

"I haven't had a show in months," he said, like he needed to explain the blank walls. There were several wrapped canvases stacked together in several wooden shelves hidden strategically around another concrete column, turned away from the public. It was ridiculous and needless and a little sloppy. "It's not anything spectacular."

Seemed appropriate to talk himself down, though Anthony was a little thrilled to see what Aziraphale thought as he set his cup down on a half-empty shelf before he pulled out a medium canvas. Aziraphale trotted after Anthony, waiting patiently with the mug in both hands as he put the painting up. 

The painting itself was a slightly more experimental, looser lines and colors of a young man in an amorphous orange and yellow and red background, harsher lights cutting across his body as he lounged with a flower in his mouth and nothing else on him. At least the anatomy was good, something that looked solid yet floating.

When Anthony was finished, Aziraphale came closer, inspecting it as thoroughly as possible with his lingering hangover. The colors washed over him in a gentle way, their brightness welcomed and not as harsh as the sunlight earlier. A feeling from long ago tugged at his consciousness, bringing him back to that late morning of his interview for Paris. It was something familiar yet different, since Anthony surely had developed over the past decades, but Aziraphale _remembered_. It was a strangely warm feeling.

"That's very good. The anatomy is spot on.”

Crowley beamed visibly at that, another gentle boost for his ego. He didn’t need it, probably, but it felt good.

“And it’s. It’s dynamic. The feeling,” Aziraphale said, leaning closer. If there had been a security line, well, he would have tripped it. “And the choice of colors is cheerfully different. Even though you didn't last long in Paris, I'm convinced now that I have made the right choice. You're an artist. Back then and definitely now. " He took another sip from his coffee, not taking his eyes from the canvas. "Your sales are good? I mean, you seem to trade with other art as well, but you surely sold your own works as well, dear boy?"

"They're decent," Anthony answered, taking his own cup back up and holding it closer to his chest. "Gets the job done."

His private sales were shit. People didn't want his work. They wanted _good_ art from the _classics_ from people who had already made their name after dying. That's how the art world liked it forever. But, one being good at his job, Anthony made all his proper documents in order from his sales of the _other_ kind of pieces he did and he was sure the tax man didn't bother him.

"You can have it. If you want," Anthony said casually towards his cup, nonchalant as ever. "Gift for putting up with me on this case?"

Aziraphale turned around on the spot, a little too fast. He winced, trying to let the dizzy sensation pass that accompanied his movement.

"Really? That's too much, Anthony. I can't just accept such an offer. But. Well. Well, I mean, I would have a frame that should complement it nicely."

He turned back to the painting to hide a tinge of pink on his features. He really liked the piece and, having a painting from the person he had admired for that brief moment twenty-odd years ago was a wonderful thing. "

Oh... The case," Aziraphale said, suddenly reminded of their task here. "I have to get home and prepare those notes for Mr. Gabriel. And I need a bath, direly." Aziraphale turned around again – slowly this time – to face the redhead completely. "I have to admit, I thought that this collaboration with you might get tiresome but I'm glad we met now. Otherwise, I would never have known what had happened to that scholarship." He beamed. As much as was possible in his current state.

"Well, I'm glad to help. Solve the case." Crowley tapped his nails on his mug in contemplation, still studying Aziraphale. "You need a lift?" he finally asked as he watched Aziraphale hold onto his painting and tried not to think too hard about the man hanging it up somewhere nice in his probably very cluttered and very old-fashioned flat.

Course, that didn’t go over as well as Crowley hoped. Aziraphale just fixed him with a *in your state? Really?* look that flattened him.

"I think I'll take a cab, thank you. If that alcohol is still thrumming through my veins….” Yes, he did still feel a bit drunk. Or the strange euphoria of his time here was affecting him. “High probability we wouldn’t make it to my place alive.”

“You don’t know my driving,” Crowley said with an almost devilish grin.

“Must not.”

Aziraphale emptied his mug and smiled back up at the other. That a hangover and the distaste for a Jon Gabriel could turn into a bonding experience.... Well, that, and drinking of course. Lots of drinking.

"I suppose you're not opposed to a good hot shower yourself, dear fellow.”

It was not as soft as “dear boy.” Either he’d upgraded or downgraded and Crowley’s mind tickled with the possibility of either. Was a nasty itch to think on. So he tried not to.

"S’pose I’m not. You know, you've read my mind."

Crowley chuckled and put his mug down again to be forgotten, taking the painting back to wrap it in wax paper and protect it before it ended up in Aziraphale's abode. Preferably not above the commode, but, hey, beggars can't be choosers. He made his own mental note to get Aziraphale in his car someday. That could be thrilling.

While Crowley was busy, he let Aziraphale stand alone with the rest of his paintings and his borrowed coffee, looking quite natural there.

"Well. One of us should call the other," he said, helping Aziraphale with his coat and over to the door to leave. "For the case." Though dinner again could be fun.

A little startled by the sudden change of his attitude, Aziraphale let himself be helped with his items. It was nice of Anthony to wrap it, of course. But the thing with the coat was a complete surprise. What one night and a copious amount of red wine could do. A miracle, really. He stood there in the doorway, bag slung around his shoulders, suitcase in one hand and his new painting in the other. He looked quite tired but kept a genuine smile directed at Anthony all the same.

"After we send in our reports, I'm sure that our diligent _friend_ at Interpol will contact us as soon as possible. I'll let you know immediately. Maybe we could discuss things over dinner again, then. Somewhere you like to eat this time, for sure." He grinned and nodded, since his hands were full. "I’ll see you around, Anthony. Take it slow; I surely will. Ta-ta."

And with that, Aziraphale left.

Dutifully as he was, the first thing the conservator did back home was fetch his old laptop and sent all his notes to Gabriel. To be fair, it wasn't as much duty or diligence that drove him but the desire to be left alone for at least an hour while he soaked in the tub, surrounded by bubbles. What a heavenly prospect. He treated himself to a cocoa though, even thought about spicing it up for a mere second before dismissing it with a _uhhg_. Effort. And headaches!

As the water was running, filling the tub and the bathroom above his workshop with steam, Aziraphale trotted back down to his work bench. Already clad in his bathrobe, he just finished hanging the painting he'd been gifted so generous. People would be able to see it when they came further into his workshop than a friendly visit, but he would always have a look at it while working. And he had been right! The frame he'd thought of was a perfect fit.

Pleased with himself, he finally got up to his well-deserved bubble bath. He sank into the almost boiling heat with a hiss and a contented sigh afterwards, letting the events of the day replay at their leisure in his mind.

As for Anthony Crowley? Mugs? Forgotten. Forged documents of sale? Forgotten. Leftovers of Greek food that needed to be binned after being drunkenly abandoned in his little sitting area? Oh, that was forgotten last night and well into this morning. Cell phone, surely. Well, at least he had a charging plate he could dump it on and forget. Shower! No, shower was forgotten.

Anthony locked his doors, by some miracle, and found the last half bottle of wine, dragging a low-back chair with him over to the work area he had assigned for Aziraphale's task and plopped it down. He forced down the rest of the wine too, sitting unpleasantly in his stomach, and stared at each painting, until afternoon spilled into evening. He didn't move. He barely even breathed, maybe, just by the look of him, fantastically asleep for most of it to help erase the day until his head slumped and he went upstairs to his flat to pass out in a bed properly around supper time. Felt like he could sleep for a year. So, he tried to.

-♦-

The next day came and Aziraphale was still recovering, as one does when they are no longer in their twenties but decide to drink and sleep on a couch like they just might be. There was no message from Mr. Gabriel and so the conservator was free to return to his work. He was just engrossed in commission for a restoration on illuminated text from a very abused bible when he glanced up at his newly acquired artwork.

 _I'm wondering how he is doing..._.

Aziraphale put his brush down and fished his mobile from under a piece of parchment. After a moment of consideration the merits of a text or a call, he started typing.

> **Aziraphale** : Hello Anthony. I was wondering if you're still as affected by that Merlot and it's companions as I am. [9:32 AM]

The little _plink-plink!_ chime of his phone barely registered, but Crowley finally managed to reach across from his bed and tug it over. The words were a bit swimmy. He scowled, his face half hidden by the duvet, and struggled to type out a simple:

> **Crowley** : yes u ?; you [9:45 AM]

Aziraphale looked at the short message for a while, eyebrows knitted together. It was quite hard to make out the mood of your digital conversation partner in general when one did not have tone or facial expression, but this really was a challenge.

> **Aziraphale** : I hope I haven't bothered you too much. I'm affected myself, as I said. Heard anything from Gabriel? [9:48 AM]

> **Crowley** : bk [9:51AM]

Anthony grumbled and dropped his phone into his forehead, wincing before he fetched it and rubbed the spot it had fallen.

> **Crowley** : No.
> 
> **Crowley** : Not yet.

Bloody godsend for autocorrect, as he was about to type "nkt hst."

> **Crowley** : Feelkke I've been squashes.

Fuck.

> **Crowley** : Squashed. [9:53AM]

Right, so autocorrect wasn't saving him from everything. Demon, clearly. He groaned again, hoping the ceiling would cave in and kill him instantly.

Aziraphale squinted at his phone and huffed a laugh.

> **Aziraphale** : I can read that, dear boy. Maybe you should get a glass of water and an aspirin. [9:55AM]

Aziraphale placed the phone beside the opened bible and returned to the big calligraphy he had tended to. There should be something said that Crowley was only the second person he had ever texted so much on his phone. It meant something.

"Dear boy," Anthony grumbled at the screen, pinching his eyes shut. "Fuck you." But he said it so warm and sleepy and so close to a smile, it wasn't even a proper curse.  
  


> **Crowley** : You too ,Angel. [9:59AM]  
>   
> 

He had fucked up the autocorrect just enough and hit send before he could fix it. Too late, off through the phone. Anthony didn't even recognize it and sighed, setting his phone down on the pillow so the brightness would stop trying to drill like iron worms through his dry eye sockets, and rolled himself out of bed to go attempt at being a living, breathing, respectable human being for a change. He needed to make some calls anyhow and get that stupid "report" over to Gabriel. Aziraphale probably already did his.

(Aziraphale, in fact, had.)

The very same Aziraphale wanted to ignore the phone's chime. He really wanted to. The ink needed to be renewed at this delicate curve and he should attempt that in one careful swipe. But curiosity got the cat – you know how it goes – and he picked the device up.

And stared at it, unblinking, with his magnifying glasses.

" _Angel_?!"

However did Anthony Crowley come up with a bloody pet name, just one day after their work-relationship had seemed to go from "I hate you with my whole heart" to "You're nicer than I thought, let's get drunk together?" That man was an enigma!

There was much he should say. Probably. Possibly? No, no. Maybe it was nothing. A mistake! Oh, could be…no! Not knowing how he should handle… _that_ , Aziraphale let it slip without comment and took a sip from his favorite mug. It didn't help that it was an angel winged one.

“Bugger.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two dine at the ritz!

Though they had managed to cultivate a somewhat brief but friendly conversation, their texts remained sparse and any communication in person was delayed by events that kept Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley apart for the better half of a month. These unprofessional correspondences were interrupted by calls from Gabriel, who was both hasty to make an arrest and tied up by other matters that he was not allowed to discuss. Crowley, of course, made a joke about being tied up and Aziraphale did his best to avoid said joke like a wide lake that he either did or did not want to dip his toe into. Hard to tell. Tone and all that, you know, disappeared that way.

So, just when the weekend was around the corner, Aziraphale thought that a proper face-to-face meeting would be rather apt. Just to see how things were going, of course. He had scheduled a nice afternoon tea at the Ritz with his dear friend and professional Madam – though soon to be retired, by their last conversation – Tracy and, why not extend into a dinner with Crowley as well? Aziraphale had picked up the tradition to deign himself (and sometimes his oldest friend) a meal at the Ritz after he was complete with a contentious project at the workshop, this one being that illuminated bible he’d been niggling over. Some awful water damage through the book of revelations at the back. Had gone and wiped it all out. Still, the task was complete, and while Aziraphale did not live a particularly luxurious lifestyle, such indulgences with his friend at a place he loved dearly was just about right. In his humble opinion. Of course.

Just needed to arrange it all.

> **Aziraphale:** Hello dear, how are you today? Since there weren't any more updates from "Head Office," I thought I might tempt you to dinner. What would you say about eating at the Ritz? [11:53 AM]
> 
> **Aziraphale:** -Aziraphale [11:53 AM]

Anthony was actually back in his studio again, inspired to work on a new piece he was going to try and debut. It was before noon, which meant he was close to being up for the better part of 17 hours. Such is the way when inspiration hits. He had on a pair of sleek, vintage-inspired 80s-style headphones, his sunglasses tucked into his collar, and his apron covered with paint, which matched oddly his forearms and his chin. He glanced over and wrinkled his eyes together, wiping his hands clean as he took up his phone.

> **Crowley:** Yes Hello, Angel. [12:03 PM]

By this point, it had become a little bit of a joke and he ran with it.

> **Crowley:** This evening? Yeah, I'm free. What time are you thinking? [12:03 PM]

Aziraphale's shoulders wiggled slightly when he read the answer. This would be a wonderful day! Double booked himself, but in only the best possible way!

> **Aziraphale:** Marvelous! Thought about 6:30 pm, if that isn't too early for you, nocturnal creature that you are. [12:04 PM]

He chuckled warmly. Over time Aziraphale had found that Anthony did love his sleep but that this didn't mean he wasn't enjoying the night to its fullest. Most of them with wine, as some texts indicated. Aziraphale put the phone down and checked his wardrobe as he waited for a response, just about ready to go meet with his friend.

Anthony toyed with the idea of asking Aziraphale for his retiree card, if they wanted to go in for the early bird special, but he decided 6:30 was actually quite reasonable. A quick glance down and he knew he needed a shower and a change of clothes. And a nap, Christ, he needed a nap. Or coffee. No, right, he was going to do coffee about it.

> **Crowley:** Sounds good. Meet you there? I'll be the bloke in the black car. [12:10 PM]

Har har. There'd be plenty of folks matching that description. Still, it made Crowley smile to himself before he stepped away, putting aside his paints for the day and get himself ready. Plenty of time, too, if he snuck in a quick nap. Tiny nap. A nip.

-♦-

“Oh, I do miss this, Mr. Fell.” Tracy touched the top of his hand, laughing in that wonderfully bright way she did. She’d gone for blonde this time, close as he could tell to her natural color. It was silvery and beautiful and he felt a bit like they could be siblings then.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale leaned forward and stole a little nibble off the tower beside them. “I tell you, those final revelations really were done for. Might as well just say they were complete recreations at this point. I think I got them right.”

“Oh, sure you have,” she said and waved that behind them. “Tell me what else you’ve been up to!”

Mostly, these meetings were dedicated to "spilling the tea," as Anathema – a young art student that had done an internship with Aziraphale last semester – had explained to the conservator once. Aziraphale was shocked about that figure of speech. Spilling it! You should drink it! Anathema, of course, kindly ribbed him about it.

So, the meeting between the two gossiping friends was delightful as ever. Tracy spoke of her latest amorous adventures and Aziraphale listened with an amused smile. Of course, his participation on the forgery case was a topic as well and Tracy soaked everything up, making jokes about Aziraphale finally starring in his own Agatha Christie story. Their meeting prolonged and as Aziraphale was looking on to his watch again, he gasped slightly.

"Something's wrong, love?" Tracy asked, with her cup in hands.

"Oh, I just forgot the time. You see, I'm having a dinner date right after our meeting, dear."

"A dinner date?" No doubt she was delighted and she beamed at him. "Aziraphale, have you finally listened to me and got yourself a nice squeeze?"

“What?” Aziraphale chuckled, looking irritated as long as he could play that charade up. “No! No, he’s a colleague.”

Tracy had tried to set him up over twelve times, most of them without Aziraphale knowing he had been set up. Why his love life was such a concern would always be a mystery. She followed it like it was her own quiet little slice of a soap.

“You can squeeze colleagues, too. Not all of them are braindead donkeys with—”

“Careful,” he warned, and she mimed buttoning her lip, pretending she had never said such a thing. "No, it's just… it’s work-related.”

“With that tall slice of beef you were talking about?”

Aziraphale nearly choked into his napkin when he caught on who she might mean.

“Jon _Gabriel?_ ” He finished wiping his mouth and shook his head. “Afraid not. I'm meeting up with Anthony."

Tracy looked a little disappointed and set her cup down.

"Right. The Gallery owner. But, here’s a funny thing. Didn’t you say—”

"Caution, please."

"Right. On that matter.” She pursed her lips, holding a delicate teacup up to her lips, contemplating something. Then batted her pretty artificial eyelashes and looked up at him once more. “Is he good looking?"

Aziraphale groaned and waved a waiter over.

“What?” she asked.

"What do you mean, ‘what?’ I know you. It's work related! That hardly matters.”

“Just because its work and not play doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate how someone looks, dearie. Should do it more often, in fact. You’re the one who’s s’posed to have an eye for these sorts of things.”

“An eye?”

“Works of art?”

“Anthony isn’t—” Aziraphale’s face flushed and he had to take a big gulp of water in hopes it would go away and fast. “I told you! How he was when we first met.”

“Impertinent,” she said, repeating the word he had used back to him.

“Impertinent!”

“Still doesn’t answer my question, Aziraphale, darling.” She grinned. Oh, she knew the conservator well enough to see when he was deflecting!

"Quite.”

“Where are you meeting him?”

“Here, actually.”

“Here! When?”

“Well,” he said and winced politely. “I hate to shoo you away, but he should be here any minute.”

Tracy laughed and stood, coming over to Aziraphale’s seat to give him a goodbye kiss.

"Alright. Well, wouldn’t want to disturb your important business. Just remember to see if he’s cute.”

“Tracy!”

“For my sake!”

“Tracy….”

“I’ll just be over there. Must reapply my lipstick. Maybe I have business too.” She had gestured perhaps ten steps away from the table where she would be close enough to see them both. But Aziraphale’s face told her he wouldn’t appreciate that. “Little further then? Oh, come now. I just want to see what he looks like!”

-♦-

Was he in the right spot? He was. You can't miss the Ritz. Why was he anxious??

Anthony got out so his precious car could be taken away by the valet – with three separate threats of violence on the poor man. It was still bright out. Bright enough, considering they were in the middle of October now. Where the hell did the time go? What time was it anyways? As he brushed down the line of his suit once on the sidewalk, he checked his watch and fuck him, he was early? It wasn't fashionable to be early! Ah, Aziraphale didn't know a fashionable thing if it killed him. It’s fine. He’s fine! It’s all _fine_.

Anthony centered himself with private promises of ice cream indulgences after the evening was over and vegging on the sofa, watching reruns of Golden Girls. Yes. A treat. Good. Just had to get through dinner with Aziraphale. Not that it was a chore. He’d done it before!

 _Why_? Was he so! Anxious!

"Yes, party of two. I'm meeting a Mr. Fell," Anthony explained as he played with his scarf idly, trying to look disinterested and bored.

"He's actually here," the host explained and started to lead Anthony back, who already spotted Aziraphale facing the wrong way, having tea with a brightly colored woman. Was he interrupting something? Did he have the day wrong? The time? No?

Tracy's eyes flitted up and Aziraphale could see them fixing on something, like a cat that had spotted a mouse in the high grass. He furrowed his brows but didn't bother to turn around yet.

"Say Aziraphale,” she said, quietly gathering her things, which she should have started already but had been having too much fun teasing her friend. “Is your business date the tall, dark, and handsome kind?" This statement made him flush a little. How should he answer to this. “Bit on the lean side, though, inn’t he?”

"I think that's how some would put it, yes.”

“You have to watch out for the bony ones. Can be awfully bruising to the hips, dear.”

“Tracy!”

“Think he’s coming this way.”

“Why do you – oh!”

Aziraphale swiveled in his seat and spotted the redhead like the light of a beacon shining directly at him. He smiled and waved, a gesture as to invite him to come over.

"Yes. Good evening Anthony!”

"Too bad this is only a business dinner..." Tracy sighed in Aziraphale’s ear and he poked her with his elbow, lovingly.

Oh, good, he was actually expected. As...expected! Crowley sauntered over in a way that would make another man's hips ache but seemed quite natural with the flowy gait he possessed.

"Aziraphale! So good to see you," he said cheerily, touching Aziraphale's shoulder as he leaned over and offered his hand to Tracy. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure? Anthony Crowley."

He grinned at himself, the low chandelier light glinting off his sunglasses, a clear flirt for the woman who was apparently Aziraphale's friend? Maybe his date? Anthony wasn't going to judge; it was just unexpected. For all that Aziraphale was, he gave off the aura that he was firmly from London and as gay as the day is long. One should not judge a book by its cover, but Anthony was certain he'd read a chapter or two on the man. Best not to dwell.

"Good to see you too. May I introduce you, this is my good friend Tracy."

Tracy giggled, amused as she took the offered hand.

"No, we hadn't. Aziraphale here was _just_ talking about you. I was elongating my stay. No need for the lipstick,” she said to Aziraphale with a wink, which only furthered to frustrate him. “I'll leave the gentlemen alone now for their dinner. It was really nice to see you in person, Mr. Crowley."

“Mm. Tracy.”

“ _Madam_ Tracy,” she added and gave him a wink that said too much. And, with a little playful giggle, she was on her way.

"I'm sorry,” Aziraphale said, standing and motioning for Anthony to sit. “We got lost in conversation. Been too long since we’d had a tea date. I hope you're hungry? How are you doing?"

Lots of questions right off the bat. Perhaps Aziraphale was nervous too?

"Annual tea date," Anthony answered, settling into place across from Aziraphale. Truly, Aziraphale looked like someone who would set up shop here, so to speak. He must be a good tipper or it was just a slow day that the staff didn’t usher him along. "She _looks_ like a card."

It seemed Aziraphale had a funny habit collecting interesting characters. Did that make Anthony an interesting character? By rights, yes, it was all he did to stand out while looking devilishly handsome and suave, but it still made him feel weirdly nervous and...happy?

"I'm starving, actually," Crowley finally said after he had his napkin off the table. "And thirsty. So, yes. Though I suppose you might be all set after your tea, hmm?"

A menu was offered to Anthony and Aziraphale started to study his own as well. “Oh, splendid! Just get what you want. It’s on me tonight. And don’t you worry, as you can clearly see, I’m more than capable of getting some dinner into myself after a nice teatime.”

He chuckled and studied the wines. Sure, this was a little bit of a self-deprecating, joke but he was well aware of his body and it surely wasn’t getting any better with age, so he just shrugged it off and tried to enjoy life as it was.

“You’re too kind,” Anthony said, as a compliment and a warning. He scanned his page as well, chewing a bit at his bottom lip. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It has! I was just wondering what takes Gabriel and company so long, but I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Haven’t heard anything in the news either.”

Anthony had obviously started right with the wine menu. It was easier to act calm and cool with a little imbibing, not that he was nervous about anything. He even snorted a short laugh at the comment inspector from Interpol. "Bureaucracy will always hold you up," he answered, tracking across the selections and picking out something light and sweet that they both might enjoy. It was closer to a dessert wine, but he liked his indulgences as well. "I think they find a sick pleasure in carbon copies. And red tape." 

Aziraphale looked up to study Anthony. He really did look good tonight, with the complimenting silhouette of his suit, the style of his hair, even the thin silver scarf and all. Azirpahale thought to himself, that if people would mistake their meeting for some kind of romantic rendezvous, he wouldn’t be mad about it. It wasn’t every day that he was seen going out with an attractive man and he just had to admit from the start that Anthony was indeed attractive. He was just acknowledging this, of course. Nothing more. Simple facts!

Honestly, if one were to assume the two were on a date, a romantic one even, Anthony would be quite pleased. Aziraphale was charming and a bit awkward and a bit stuffy, but he was distinguished and lovely and soft on the eyes. Anthony counted himself lucky that he could steal glances at the man at close quarters. Inspiration, that's all.

The conservator’s trained eyes fell on one of the elegant hands, seeing a splotch of color peeking out from underneath the cuff.

“Oh, have you painted today?”

At the last question, Anthony forked his eyebrows together before he glanced at his wrist and suddenly curled his fingers together to hide the mess.

"Ah. A little," he admitted with a slow smile. "Just messing around. It's been a while, but I was feeling, er, inspired."

"That's wonderful! May I see it in the future? I really do like your work," Aziraphale said honestly, smiling at his companion. It was true, Anthony was a real artist and the conservator prided himself with having enough knowledge about art to say this in a professional way. And the not so professional part of him, that just enjoyed the beauty of life, loved the way Anthony used colors and shapes so vividly, without overdoing it too much. Not too modern, not too old fashioned. Just a class of its own.

Of course, Aziraphale wouldn't say this out loud that he liked to gaze at the gifted painting while he took a short break between work.

"Mhhh... How about you pick a starter? I would like to have the beef wellington with truffles. It can be done as a dish for two, if you're interested."

"Yeah?"

Anthony remained fixed on the menu a moment more, or at least his face was, despite the little curl of his lips. Truthfully, he was studying Aziraphale again, watching each little movement. It was just sort've fascinating. He telegraphed so much honesty with each breath and brush of his fingers. Anthony was certain if Aziraphale was upset? You'd know it a mile off. He'd been on the end of annoyance and disappointment from the man, but true anger? Or despair? Well, it would be beautiful and horrible, that's what Anthony thought.

"These brussel sprouts sound good," Anthony commented coolly, trying his best not to telegraph what _he_ felt. Which was curiosity and a comfortableness around someone that made him too aware of himself. It was a contradiction, but, then again, Anthony was born for contradictions. "They do have bacon," he commented with a little pout, ticking down the page more. "Oh! A bruschetta?"

Aziraphale perked up behind his menu, a hint of concern on his face. He just noticed that he might have missed something important about his companion.

"Oh, you're vegetarian? I'm so very sorry, I should have asked at least. If it's too uncomfortable, I can opt for a meatless meal as well. I wouldn't like to dampen your appetite, dear."

"Oh, don't short yourself for my sake, Angel." The fact he cared was touching. It was weak, but it was so very touching. "Honestly, I bet they make a great beef wellington here. If you haven't had it. I feel like you have?" Right, now Anthony felt stupid and lounged back in his chair. "I bet it's divine here. Should be. I mean, so're the brussel sprouts." He bounced his leg as he continued reading, now hyper-aware of himself again. "Damn me," he muttered quietly. "Would just be as happy with cake as anything."

Aziraphale considered something for a moment. When the server came over, miraculously appearing like he had just smelled them ready to pick, Aziraphale simply said, "I’ll have whatever he picks."

Anthony stared at him. The server stared at them. Well, the server didn’t stare, he was just waiting, but he waited quietly and it felt like staring. And Anthony tried not to telegraph _how_ he felt as he picked a wine and ordered them the bruschetta. And that was settled. The service itself was still the best, with wine arriving shortly after. That dessert wine was a surprise for their starter, but Aziraphale tried it all the same.

"I'm usually a friend of the dry ones, but this is really refreshing.”

“It’s sweet,” Anthony said plainly, resting his elbows on the table. “How often do you come here?”

“Only after I finish a project. It's a luxury I indulge in. This, and rare books."

"Rare books," Anthony repeated. He scratched his chin, the corners curling up in a smile. "Yeah, I can see it." He sat forward when they were alone and tapped the table. "That was a nasty play, Angel," he said quietly, still clearly delighted. "I'm just gonna order you the beef wellington. It's what you wanted."

The man seemed puzzled, a slight hue of pink appearing on the bridge of his nose.

"Are you thwarting my attempt to be a polite and considerable person?" Aziraphale asked with an incredulous laugh. This man and his wiles, really.

“As a rule of thumb against polite and consideration? Yes.”

“Fiend.” He shook his head, still baffled and amused, taking another sip of the wine. "And yes, rare books. I have a little personal library you could say. Many first editions. Some of them were in a terrible state when I got them, but I helped them back to their old glory. I'm also practicing bookbinding. More as a hobby, though I do take request. "

"Do you? I mean, I'd sorely like to see that. What have you restored?" Anthony sat back, indulging in his own glass of wine. "Which one was your favorite? Let me guess. An illuminated script. Something biblical. Has to be, if it's old, right?"

He was entirely enjoying himself too much. This felt so easy, these conversations now. And knowing each other not even a fortnight. It was almost miraculous. Bonus for knowing a conservator who worked with old books. That could be lucrative, if exploited in the right circles.

"You're not wrong. Those are just the most interesting to work on, honestly. I have a collection of odd bibles, with misprints and strange comments. It's a delight, really. But my true favorite?" It was Aziraphale’s turn to lean in close, his voice dropping in a conspiratorial tone.

“A Shakespeare. Hamlet. "

"No," Anthony whispered. Already, the idea of getting his hands on the thing and pawning it played out like some horribly rotten scheme, before he seemed to catch himself, settling back in the seat. "That’s.” _Incredibly expensive_. “That's an understatement, truly. An original? How?"

It had been a strike of great Fortune that Aziraphale had found this one. It had been battered and was in no good condition at all, but he was just the man to save it. With much love and care, he had pampered the manuscript back to a decent, if not wondrous state. It was a small fortune, but he would never consider selling it.

“Just my luck, I suppose,” he answered offhandedly.

“That’s.” His brain was still reeling, flopping back and forth between astounded and envious and diabolical. It made words very hard, is what it did.

“I could show you. I – oh! Yes! We’re ready to order!”

The waiter returned and it was Anthony's turn to pick their main course, watching Aziraphale again as he ordered the beef wellington for two, per the instructions on the menu, though he did request an extra helping of the garden vegetables to offset their selection. He didn't mind. Dessert was really his favorite anyways and he figured he would greatly enjoy watching Aziraphale enjoy his dinner.

Then balked at that thought, settling back and choking a bit on his wine.

Aziraphale looked very pleased, both at Crowley’s endearing blundering and that he had done exactly what he had guessed the man would do. Presented with a chance to order something vegetarian and, there, went and got the beef wellington instead. What a peculiar man.

"Is everything you do in opposition to your friends a learned skill, or are you just that way? Why have you picked that up now, you could have gone for a whole meal for yourself."

 _Friends_? Crowley tweaked an eyebrow at that.

"You are an enigma, Anthony Crowley. And you do everything in your power to keep that up, don't you?"

"I mean, I'm not going to throw a fuss at an establishment like this. And you wanted it!" Anthony reasoned with a strained smile, laughing despite himself.

It was a somehow affectionate accusation. They had gone and grown on each other despite their best efforts. Aziraphale had never thought that this scoundrel could redeem himself, but here they were.

He did indeed feel a strange kind of friendship towards Anthony. It normally took quite some time to find a way in the stuffy conservator’s heart, but Tracy had found her way there in an inconvenient way as well, so it seemed to just be the way these things went. It had been a long time since he had felt so intrigued. So at ease.

Frankly, it was frightening.

"You like me," Anthony reasoned, a bold tease, but honestly nothing more than that. "You do. So you put up with me. Well, give me your potatoes with the meal and call it square, alright?"

"You're a foul fiend. Of course will I share my potatoes."

“S’pose I could spare one.”

“They’re _my_ potatoes.”

“ _Our_ potatoes.”

The meal came eventually and as promised, Anthony got all the vegetables. Conversation flowed, with more little quips here and there. It came naturally somehow. One could blame the wine, but it felt freer than that. And while eating once with Aziraphale must have left an impression, dining him at a high-class restaurant was an experience. He savored every bite, leaving a whole critique in just the sounds he produced around fork and knife. No gobbling or other unpleasant things, oh no. Aziraphale was practically moaning. And he was downright methodical, a surgeon over a clockwork piece or something as he offered notes that rivaled symphonies.

Anthony, on two occasions, gripped the knee of is his trousers and considered smacking Aziraphale's hand away from his plate to save himself from the sounds made when he was truly, entirely savoring his meal. It should be disgusting. Maybe obscene? It had a flavor of eroticism but, mostly, it was hypnotic and Anthony found himself asking "hmm?" on more than one occasion just to follow the conversation again, caught up in a swipe of pink tongue or the way Aziraphale's throat moved.

But he found his ways. To stay in the moment. Short of stabbing himself with his fork.

"Do you know how hard it is to get that shade of blue for those pieces? It's expensive! I mean, you know, you do restoration. You probably know better than me," Crowley went on, getting stuck on a lapis lazuli and authentic blue paint at the time, because of some errant comment about birds or something.

"Of course I know, but hearing that you go the lengths to use that for your paintings is quite something. And I thought that you don't approve of the old ways?"

“If they’re good. Color’s brilliant, too. Though I guess some of the synthetics are…I don’t know.”

“But it’s charming!”

“Charming. You think I’m charming?”

“Did I say that?” Aziraphale dabbed his mouth with the napkin, finally setting fork and knife down to spare Anthony. For now. " Ah, outright divine. How were your vegetables?"

"Bit salty," Anthony answered, swiping the last fingerling potato through the buttery sauce and popping it into his mouth with a grin. Honestly, the meal was perfect, but it was funny to watch Aziraphale's reactions.

Anthony only earned a look, pinched but reserved, as Aziraphale tried to ignore the small drip of butter on rosy and very lovely lips.

"Now, what do you say, angel, hmm? You still have room for dessert? We could stay here, or I could drive us somewhere? This is your date idea."

The second he actually called it a "date," Anthony's fingertips buzzed and he worried he had said something really stupid. It was a joke! Aziraphale would surely see it that way. Anthony joked about everything. He grinned and remained still, barely comprehending the tablecloth.

"I always have room for dessert, dear boy.” Anthony swallowed and Aziraphale stared at his throat. “I had thought about getting the crêpe suzette here and—"

 _Date_.

Aziraphale started laughing a little, shaking his head. Anthony thought he might order the crêpe suzette so he could set himself on fire.

“What?”

"Nothing.” But that wasn’t good enough. “Just…I’m glad Tracy didn't hear that. She would not let me hear the end of it.”

“Ngh.”

“Never mind that. What were we saying? Right! I had planned on staying here and maybe getting a nightcap back at my workshop. Nothing too heavy of course, we would not like to repeat such an experience so soon, would we?"

"So soon, yeah," Anthony said around a chuckle. "Have it down to the days we've known each other?"

The answer was 43 days. Probably 12 hours. Roughly 13 minutes.

Not like Anthony was counting or anything.

"But, uh, yeah, sounds good. They make a great...yeah. Crêpe suzette. Right on." He set his fork angled on his plate to signal he was done with it all and relaxed back in his chair. "And, uh, you're inviting me to your workshop this time? Or am I stepping boundaries again?"

"If you had a specific place in mind to get dessert, please don't be shy and tell me. And yes, see yourself officially invited to my sanctum."

Aziraphale was already going through the wines that were stored away in that smallish cabinet, right behind his frames. It just felt right to invite Anthony over. His company had been nice and Aziraphale wasn't ready to let go of that. Socializing so much in one day was a rare occasion and so far, he wasn't complaining.

"It's only fair that I show you mine, after you presented yours. Most certainly involuntarily, because of the case, so see this as making the count even again. I could show you some of those odd bibles."

Inwardly, the conservator cringed. This sounded like 'Let me show you my miniature trains' or something and at the same time, like a very strange and specific kind of flirt line.

It really did sound like a slightly pathetic come on. Which just made Anthony grin sharper.

"Y'know what? I'd love to. And you and I are going down the street to a little café with the most perfect angel food cake I've been cursed to consume like they're the fucking lotus eaters."

Aziraphale’s eyes lightened up. “Angel food cake? Oh, that sounds rather lovely, just give me a second here,” he beamed.

Anthony sat back to get out his wallet to pay, only remembering that Aziraphale was going to cover this meal as well and not at all fighting him on it. Mostly on principle, as a con artist and the likes, but he was surprised to find that if he really thought about it, he really would have paid. Worse yet, he already had it in his head to cover the dessert. Jokingly, Anthony considered Aziraphale a witch and he'd have to skip town before he really did ask the conservator out on a real date or something.

“A little walk will do us good and make some more space for that promising sounding cake!”

After Aziraphale’s coat was returned from the cloakroom, they headed out into the crisp late autumn night. Azirpahale hummed a little as he waited for Anthony to lead the way. As they were walking for some time, Azirpahale started talking again.

“You do like to use the old paints, don’t you? I just saw it on that painting you gifted to me. Say, does it have a title, whatsoever?”

"Beauty in Summer," Anthony answered glibly. "It's nothing. Just, y'know, I mean...." His tongue was doing that funny thing where it wouldn't stick to a single letter properly, sliding all around and tripping over himself. "I like. Painting," he finally added in complete syllables and everything. "With old paints. Even the poisonous ones. They just have...something about them."

A history. A breadth of color. An authenticity. A use when forging paintings. All of the above, really.

The title made Azirpahale think. Had Anthony just drawn that from memory? Some references? A live model maybe? Artists had a thing for painting their amorous adventures, lovers, partners, muses, whatever they were, and he could picture it perfectly. A young, good looking man, just posing lascivious and trying to lure the painter in, until he caved. Strong and sinew hands speckled with paint sliding up the others naked form and...

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what was he _thinking_? Tracy was to blame, seriously. She spoke about some of her own amorous adventures today. Yes, that must have been it.

“I know what you mean...” Azirpahale answered. He was trying to distract himself from that indecent thought, feeling a tinge of affection at the fact that Anthony liked to use all these various colors. “But I do hope you’re using a proper ventilated room and a mask, if you’re using the poisonous ones. Oh my, what a lovely place!”

They’d come up to the quaint little shop, snuggled in between two heavy brick buildings on either side. The shopfront was still brightly lit, with pale paisley designs framing the windows and a wrought iron nameplate swinging from the awning. Anthony wrinkled his nose at the sight of it, the lights on inside, the pastry case all lit up with the last of the days’ treats waiting for them. Or, more accurately, he wrinkled his nose at Aziraphale, who had said kind things about him. To him. For him. It was too much. And now he was even holding the door open for Aziraphale!

“Thank you!”

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley grumbled, following him inside and nearly hit with the full force of Aziraphale’s glowing contentment. This is man consume fifty watt lightbulbs between meals. He didn't glow. Not literally. But the disposition, the way he carried himself when he was pleased, Anthony almost shielded his eyes as a joke.

They settled in into their seats as Yvonne, as the name tag proclaimed, took their orders. Anthony did the talking, a quick clipped French, and Yvonne gave them both a wink and a tiny salute before she disappeared behind the expansive counter to fetch both a devil's food cake and an angel's food cake. They were topped with a scant amount of icing, a dollop if you whip, and a carefully cut strawberry fanned out. Yvonne even drizzled something strawberry and sweet over the delicate pale sponge of the angel food cake, before handing them over.

“ _Merci, Yvonne_ ,” Anthony answered, setting the angel food cake in front of Aziraphale with a cheeky grin. "You're going to fucking love that. Seriously. Bet me if you like." Before he handed over the silver fork and went to take a generous piece of the deep dark fudge sponge of his devil's food cake before him.

“Language,” he tutted before turning to the young lady behind the counter with a disarming smile. “Merci, my dear. Now, let’s see if your claims are serious ones....”

Oh no. Oh _no!_ Anthony spoke French! And Aziraphale sounded terrible but thought it appropriate to follow suit. Worst of all, that indecent thought stirred again in the back of Aziraphale’s mind. A roaming hand as lips pressed to an exposed neck, promises of love sprinkled like paint, of desires. Whispers misunderstood in French but done so tenderly. No!

One reason why Aziraphale had been glad to not go to Paris for his artistic education had been that French did rather... _haughty_ things to him if spoken well and he could see himself running into one disaster after the other as a young and naïve artist.

But no one had to know.

The display of the cake, an artwork of its own, was distracting him enough. It was almost too good to eat, but Azirpahale made sure to give it the utmost attention and love while devouring. He took a bite. His eyes widened first before fluttering shut, an actual moan coming out of the throat. Proper, low, pleasing to hear.

“Heavens! That’s impeccable! A Symphony of a cake. Oh, Anthony dear, thank you for taking me here.”

Azirpahale was rivaling the neon signs outside, the not-really-there-glow intensifying. He took his time with the next bites, taking in the flavor and consistency, letting it melt on his tongue. This was almost better than sex. He supposed it was still a tad bit better; it had been quite some time since he had indulged in _that_ with a partner.

“I could die for that cake. May I taste yours, you devil?”

Anthony hadn't even attempted a bite. He was too caught up in how Aziraphale so brazenly enjoyed his food. It was a little alarming, actually. He could rival Meg Ryan in that one movie. About…New York or something. Seattle? Either way, Aziraphale was too honest and genuine and sort've damnably delightful about it all that was even worse.

"Yeah," Anthony answered quietly, his voice catching so he had to clear it before he nudged his cake towards Aziraphale. "Yeah, I mean. Take a bite. I'd want your honest opinion on the matter."

He'd get it. Anthony was certain Aziraphale could not lie if his life depended on it, doubly so if it was for food. And food he enjoyed? They'd had two and a half meals together, at best, and Anthony was still certain of this fact.

This place really did a sinfully dark chocolate devil's food cake. It clung to the tongue without being suffocating, melting down like silk, with the slightest hint of raspberry to play with the overall senses of the thing. Honestly, even with just anticipation, Anthony might have to shift his legs a little to hide what watching Aziraphale enjoy his food was doing. Impure thoughts. Really. About food. _Really_.

Aziraphale may have died and woke up in heaven – or more likely Hell, given the cake's name. He was completely quiet for a moment before a soft vibrato started thrumming in his chest, swelling to a long and sensual hum. His eyes were closed, brows kneaded together on kind of a desperate display.

This was otherworldly.

He swallowed, slowly opening his eyes.

"Heaven's. That was an experience. This is the most excellent work of art I was fortunate enough to taste. And we were just dining at the Ritz."

Aziraphale sighed and took another fork full of his heavenly counterpart of a cake.

"Thank you so very much for showing me, Anthony, dear. I'll make sure to visit here more often! Well, I most certainly shouldn't." He patted his stomach. "But I was never good in resisting such temptations."

"Well, it suits you," Anthony said, almost just giving Aziraphale the entirety of the cake. He wouldn't even be mad, except he did want a little bite, so he stole that much at least. "The, uh...hedonism?" Anthony turned his face as he smiled a peculiar smile to himself, like he wasn't sure of himself, like he knew what he was saying was incorrect or rude and actually trying to figure out how to soften it. Well, too late, it was out in the open, but it was kinda funny.

As well as a thinly veiled compliment on Aziraphale's form. Which was just as appetizing as the chocolate cake.

"Right!" Anthony said and laughed again, taking too big a bite and quickly covering his mouth with his hand to hide his bulging cheeks and fevered, very-rushed chewing.

The conservator stopped in his indulgence for a second, letting the fork sink down to the plate again. He wasn't upset or hurt, no. This felt more like he'd been called out for something he was well aware of but hearing it from someone else was a tad bit mortifying.

"You're not wrong. No discipline, my father used to say." He chuckled, but quite humorless and looked up to Anthony only to blink several times before a laugh shook him. "I'm sorry, this just looks like you're a chipmunk, caught in the act!."

Anthony just chewed faster, shrinking his shoulders up to his ears and holding up a finger to give him a moment. And, after said moment, he finally had the bite back down. One shouldn't try to just unhinge their jaw and swallow it all, but, alas, mistakes were made. He'd only gotten through dinner by watching Aziraphale and having neat little vegetable bites and being in a proper setting that he felt restrained.

Maybe Aziraphale felt the same?

Anthony tapped his chest and finally swallowed, laughing at himself.

"Sorry," Anthony muttered and laughed harder. "Also, your father sounds like a prick." He wiped his mouth and nudged his cake back towards Aziraphale, a few bites left. "Have that. If you want. Seriously. Life's short. Indulge, Angel. We're having a good night."

Wanting to be of help, and not losing his conservation partner to cake, Azirpahale gently but firmly patted Anthony’s back as well, hoping this would help that sticky substance to slide down. His laugh and face got a hint of thankfulness in them, as soon as Anthony was able to speak again.

“Thank you,” he said. It was holding more in there than just the gratitude of getting the rest of the other’s delicious cake. “And you’re not wrong with that either. In regard to fathers and all. He _was_ a prick.” Anthony smiled, resting his cheek on his knuckles. “And it is your cake. We can still share. It will taste eve better like this, sharing one’s indulgences, no?” He laughed again, much brighter now and got some more of this sin in chocolate and cream on his fork. “I’m enjoying myself exceedingly, thanks to you.”

One should worry about that. Enjoying himself.

And so, he dug in to the cake, partly to shut up before saying something even more sentimental. They laughed together. They quipped back and forth and despite Anthony’s efforts to still slightly insult him, Azirpahale felt like the poor fellow was failing more and more at that task. How first impressions could be deceiving, really.

Anthony seemed to be like one of those old paintings, thick with layers of color, patina and dirt. And as you were trying to salvage it, clean it up, you uncovered something underneath, another painting, or a sketch maybe. Most of the times those were more vivid and lively and Azirpahale often asked himself why such things of beauty were covered up by something stiff and lifeless. There was something bright and vivid underneath that cool and suave attitude.

“You’re still in for that nightcap, dear fellow?”

"I think we need it," Anthony said, tilting away from Aziraphale, not to get out of his space but to study him. Oh, there was more to that man, that was certain. He had no need to dig into his life, to pry, but now he found he wanted to. And not even for selfish reasons!

A little...for selfish reasons. Curiosity. Probably something useful to be abused later, surely.

But mostly just because he was fascinated by the man.

“I think we do,” said Azirpahale, looking a bit too warm for comfort. A bit too cozy.

"Come on, then!"

Anthony got up and fished in his pocket, handing over money for a tip for some god awful reason before he stepped lightly to the door and held it open to Aziraphale with a bow. The night was only getting colder and the sooner they got to his car, the sooner they could sneak off to Aziraphale's study.

The car was....

Well, Aziraphale had expected something expensive. Everything about Crowley screamed some attempts at opulence and he insistence on driving was reviewed as a desperate plea to show off his car. There were those people who really liked their cars. So it should be something flashy.

By the time they returned to the Ritz, though, Aziraphale was just hoping it was warm and comfortable. He didn’t expect….

“Is that a Bentley?”

“1933, yeah.” Crowley rubbed his hands together to warm them as he exchanged money _again_ with the valet.

“I should have guessed.”

“You should have guessed a 1933 Bentley?”

“Well, something. Like this, I think. This car here is very you.”

“I take that as a great compliment. Come on.” He dipped into the driver’s side, the passenger door popped open and Aziraphale carefully settled into his seat, looking around. It was a masterpiece of an antique car and he had to admire it. Might have plenty of time to do so. At least, with an older car like this the speed couldn’t be that dramatic.

Oh, how little did he know.

It took some careful engineering, some downright obsessive maintenance, and a general disregard for human life, but Crowley's second most prized possession in his life could and would speed them through downtown like a bat out of hell.

"Where to?" he asked, carefully adjusting his driving gloves as Aziraphale got comfortable.

After he had the address, he grinned, pulled them gently out of the carpark, and they were off like they were being tailed by several deadly members of various mafia syndicates. Crowley, during the whole drive, looked quite calm and assured, occasionally driving with one hand on the wheel and pointing out something.

They should have gotten into an accident.

They should have gotten into three accidents. But! They made it to Aziraphale's address, unmarred, perhaps a little shaken, some ten minutes before the little voice on the GPS could predict they should have arrived. Crowley almost seemed peeved by that. He thought he could beat it by 15. Next time.

Once parked, Crowley slid out of the car like water and came round to Aziraphale's side, holding it open, still cool as a cucumber.

"And here we are. Didn't even get to finish listening to the record. You alright?"

He asked if he was alright. The audacity! The sheer glee!

Those had been the most terrifying minutes in Aziraphale’s life. How a classic automobile like this could speed up that fast was a mystery. Even more so how they’d been able to survive this mess! And on top of that this speed demon bastard was wearing driving gloves. Fine leather ones, emphasizing his slender fingers gorgeously. If he wouldn’t have feared for his life, Azirpahale would have asked the artist if he’d ever played the cello. Those looked like hands made to caress the strings of such an instrument.

But the conservator had to recover from the shock of three near-death experiences. He had yelled at Anthony the whole ride, which only seemed to encourage him for a much higher speed and more of those risky maneuvers. Aziraphale’s ;egs were shaking violently and he glared daggers at Anthony when he attempted to get back on sweet unmoving and solid ground.

“Do I look like I’m alright?!” He groaned, stepping out of the car. For a moment, he thought he might collapse. They were lucky he had not.

The workshop and flat in Soho were right beside a bookshop for old erotica and another sex shop right down the block. Still, the neatly written letters of A.Z. Fell, Fine Arts and Books, which looked like a shopfront of the 19th century, were oddly fitting in that lascivious and frivolous neighborhood.

The owner of said workshop wobbled up the stairs and opened the door, holding it open for Anthony.

“Please. Just make yourself a home while I fetch us some wine.”

The workshop was quite spacious, bookshelves, drawing supplies and other knickknacks cluttered up here and there. A huge skylight would illuminate everything come morning. Azirpahale gestured in the direction of the shop’s back, telling Anthony to wait there, while he pilfered through his wine compartment. He took out some white wine this time, not wanting to feel too bad the next day.

There was a small sitting area with a plush but well-used sofa and chairs. The workbench was right next to it, displaying several books and one painting, parted from its frame. Anthony’s gift was displayed pristinely on the wall. And, naturally, he had wandered over to admire the frame, missing Aziraphale sneaking up on him.

“I hope a white is alright with you? Didn’t want to get another heavy head after this, really.”

Anthony had been cautiously looking around the area, very gently nudging the supplies or bending in close to inspect them, automatically tallying their probable worth and assessing how well Aziraphale stored them. If he clearly knew how to use them. It was all second-hand at this point and, really, something to occupy his mind as he not to freak out he was in Aziraphale's space.

Not that he should freak out. He wasn't going to. Far from it.

It did seem weirdly personal and invasive though, didn't it?

No. Aziraphale had been in his public gallery. Even his private kitchen. It wasn't the same. If, perhaps, Anthony went into Aziraphale's actual flat? And if, perhaps, Aziraphale went into Anthony's private gallery? There, then they'd be even.

Right.

"White?" he asked and stood up from where he was clearly eyeing the project out of the frame. His eyes tracked up to his own painting, stuck there a moment, tugging a very tiny private smile to his lips, before he continued on to the conservator. “You prefer the reds, though,” Anthony remarked, remembering their time together at his gallery.

“Well. But I think this one is…good?” He looked at the bottle like he didn’t have a clue. “Suppose we’ll find out.”

“Suppose we must.”

Aziraphale beamed and guided them both to sit, bottle and two glasses in both hands. He set them up on the small and antique looking couch with a table directly in front of them, uncorking the wine.

"It's a family portrait from 1900," he said with a nudge of his head in the work bench's direction. "It's only minor cleaning and in need for a new frame, nothing challenging. The book beside it is one of the bibles I told you. I think it's from around 1623 or something..." With a pop, the bottles was uncorked and Aziraphale poured them both a glass full. "I can give you a little tour if you want. "

"I'd love one," Anthony answered warmly, standing upright and letting his hands float over the bible. "One question." He glanced at the table, between the painting and the edges of the bible he could make out. Would be easier if he just removed his sunglasses, which were apparently such a permanent fixture, even late at night. "Which one do you prefer?" Anthony asked as he reached out for the glass. "Cleaning paintings or fixing up the books?"

Aziraphale inhaled sharply and watched his wine, swaying in the glass as he thought.

"That's a tough one. I love both, really, but I think that the books have stolen my heart. It started as a hobby, hence why I never made it my job completely. It's something I do for relaxation and, well, fun." His gaze was a little distant, tinged with a tenderness for parchment, ancient knowledge and the invention of the book press.

"I think, if this hadn't turned out…." Aziraphale made an all-around gesture. “Well, I think I would have become a librarian. I don't own that Shakespeare because of its worth, but for the treasure of literature it is." He took a sip and gestured for Anthony to follow him. "Don't even try, you won't find it and I most certainly won't tell you where I keep it."

He said it with a smile, starting the tour. Most of the place seemed quite cluttered or chaotic, but Aziraphale seemed to know exactly where everything he needed was. Every last bit had its place in the chaotic order that was Aziraphale’s own system. It may could have been compared to the busy buzzing on a beehive. Everything seemed random, until you found the delicate and strict order in that chaos.

Many old but well refined frames could be found, almost from every era they were used; some of them artworks of their own. There was a backlog storage with paintings no one had picked up or Aziraphale had selected personally to restore and sell them later.

The general "ordered chaos" of the place made Anthony honestly a bit busy. It would be so hard to clean all of that! But it was so obviously clearly Aziraphale as well. It spoke volumes of the man. Same as the volumes he collected, apparently.

At one point, they crossed narrow metal stairs.

"Ah, and that's the way to my flat, apparently. You're not the only one who's living where he works."

Anthony cranked his neck a bit to stare up the forbidden metal stairs. He didn't dare move towards them, obviously, but he'd be a liar of the idea didn't cross his mind.

Anthony turned back on Aziraphale and nodded appreciatively. "You've made a really...cozy place for yourself here. Would be really hard to pick up and run if you were in trouble." He laughed, like it was a common worry for someone to consider that option and sipped his wine. "Why bibles? Just cause they're the oldest? No, that makes sense."

The odd comment made his brows rise, but Aziraphale didn't dwell on that.

"I come from a very religious family. Bibles were ever present, and I always admired their artful display. I guess you can't shake everything off along the way. I even studied theology for three semesters, but that hadn't been my wish in the first place. Luckily, my parents acknowledged my love for the more artistic side of things and so I specialized in Christian art for quite some time. I mean, it's a vast field."

"Pervasive," Crowley added with a knowing nod. "Like a plague."

He grinned, his eyes pinching with a little terse pull at the corner of his mouth, not at Aziraphale, just a general distaste for a religious upbringing. He hadn’t been to a synagogue in…years now, probably. That whole nonsense. He shook it off instantly and clinked his glass with Aziraphale's just to be friendly and took another sip.

"Alright, stairwells are all well and good to hang out, but, you've a couch you prefer instead?"

Or was he overstaying his welcome? Perhaps. He wondered if he would be excused early. He should. They'd had a really lovely evening and now he had a perfectly good layout of Aziraphale's studio and he did not want to fixate on that idea, but the more he heard about Aziraphale, the more he wanted to dig into his life and just discover things and it was going to drive him mad!

“Oh, you’re right, dear boy. We should make ourselves comfortable and I should stop talking so much about myself, my apologies.”

No, wait! That was the opposite of what Anthony wanted!

“Well. Just a place to sit would be nice.”

“Indeed, it would. Come along.”

They made their way over to that loveseat and a plush armchair that were not all part of a set, but paired each other nicely. Azirpahale didn’t know why but opening up to Anthony came so naturally. It was like his presence was constantly asking silent question that Azirpahale was eager to answer.

It was a nice chat after this. They about everything and nothing, giving the whole conversation such a light tone that the conservator could have gone on for hours. But the day had been long. Wonderful, yes, absolutely so. But long. And Aziraphale could feel himself getting pleasantly tired with the soft lull of the wine.

“Goodness it’s after midnight,” he said with a small gasp, yawning shortly after. “How does that always happen when you’re around.”

“It’s a gift of mine,” Crowley said, glancing at his watch.

“I fear that I’m not up to an all-nighter today, my dear. I think I should retire soon and you, my friend, need a cab home!”

"I need no such thing," Crowley answered with a pout. "I stopped drinking two...three glasses ago?"

When it became clear he wasn't going to be spending the night - and one should not dwell on that thought - he had laid off the wine, holding it to be polite and letting Aziraphale relax more. My, but he was exquisitely charming. And forthright! It was so strange to meet and befriend such an honest, open person like Aziraphale! And even when he was hiding something, he was still so gentle and earnest that it was easy to make guesses.

Crowley felt rotten being so close to him. Like he'd stain the man. And the company was a delight, but he wasn't going to wallow openly next to him, which the wine was inspiring he do, so he abstained quietly, secretly.

Plus, can't leave a classic like his parked round here. It had to go home. Anthony had to go home.

"I'll see myself out," he said with a warm smile, feeling like a snake all the same. "And even text you when I get home. Promise."

“Alright.” Those damn earnest eyes were set on him again and Anthony felt that twist in his gust go deeper. “We’re both reasonable adults, most of the time. I’m trusting you on this one.”

Azirpahale smiled as well and stood to bid him farewell. It was the polite thing to do and, more importantly, he wanted to do it. Anthony was a nice chap, even if he tried to hide that fact very very hard.

“Thank you for the lovely evening and night, Anthony, dear. Mind how you go, or drive, in this case, you hear me?” He spoke with an affectionate smile, just watching those lanky legs dance down the steps. He could get used to this, the occasional company with wine and pleasant conversation. He felt on equal footing. He dared to hope it could become a regular occurrence.

“Will do.”

“I wonder.” Anthony paused to look back as Aziraphale parsed out his thoughts. “I mean. Just. I’m wondering if we’ll ever hear back from Gabriel? But even if not, we could...still repeat this maybe? In the future?”

"Listen," Crowley said, coat gathered, feet angled to the door, ready to escape...when he turned back and grinned. Grinned. "Absolutely."

Friends were hard to come by nowadays and even Anthony "Just Another Bastard" Crowley couldn't say no to them.

He said further pleasant goodbyes and warned the conservator to go drink water before he went out to his car, into the brisk midnight air, and drove himself home. He was barely parked before he sent a text off.

> **Crowley:** I'm home. You asleep yet? In the five minutes it took me to find parking? [12:21 AM]

Azirpahale had just made it up to his flat, unbuttoning his cuffs when the phone beeped. He picked it up and smiled.

> **Aziraphale:** I’m not even undressed yet. You’re a speed demon, this can’t be healthy. Good night, Anthony. [12:22 AM]

The conservator placed the phone down, returned to neatly get rid of his shirt before slipping into his sleepwear. He was too tired to indulge in reading, but there had been more than enough indulgences today, including those indecent thoughts.

Azirpahale groaned, stubbornly ignoring the pang in his guts as he shifted to the side, closing his eyes in grim determination to not have sexual fantasies about his new friend, seducing a muse while speaking French.

They were such specific fantasies! That wasn’t fair. You can’t go around fantasizing about your new friend. It just had been too long since he had had a good shag, that must be it. Eventually, Azirpahale managed to fall asleep without a wank of shame. He would congratulate himself in the morning, if he could manage to not dream about this, please, God.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have a visit with Prince and their henchmen, Mr. Ligur and Mr. Hastur. That shouldn't be too much of a problem.

“Will you be doing anything for the holidays?”

“Christ, is that coming up?”

“You…do see all the decorations going up, right?”

Aziraphale pointed to a lovely little holly wreath upon the door. Worse, there was instrumental carols playing over the sound system overhead, but poor Anthony looked like he was suffering a bit of a headache. He’d been under the weather at the beginning of December. Soon as the snow started up, it was hard to coax poor Anthony out of his gallery. He blamed it on his circulation, but Aziraphale had been by twice to gift him some soup.

“Right.” Crowley rubbed his head and looked up, squinting through a new pair of slightly rosy shades towards the door. “Slipped my mind, I think.”

“Then I’ll get you a calendar for Christmas?”

“If you like.” He sat forward. “D’you regularly, erm…do? Christmas?”

They were at a little café together. This had become so regular now that their Thursdays did not seem to begin if they didn’t have something planned for their mornings. And too many evenings at the workshop or the gallery – mostly the gallery, as Anthony had a better selection of wine – where they drank too late and slept on couches together. Learned their lesson, finally, after that horrible hangover. They were growing more and more comfortable around each other. Azirpahale still shared more about himself willingly than he could coax out of Anthony, but that was alright. Everyone had their own pace and Anthony seemed to be very fast in most aspects of his life, so it was alright to slow down in this part. And it still gave him an air of mystique, which was quite nice and a teeny tiny bit sexy. Maybe.

“Think it’s sort’ve fun. But, I admit, I haven’t been up to see the family in years. What about you?”

They had been mistaken for a couple several times now and at one point, Azirpahale just stopped correcting people. They would think what they wanted to think anyways, so why argue with them? It was his secret warmth to hold onto. A little fantasy.

It was only a problem at night, lying in bed. Trying _not_ to think about the way Crowley had fixed his hair that day – it was getting so long! – or the smell of his cologne. The scrape of his fingers over his jaw. The crinkle around the edges of his sunglasses when he laughed.

“Jewish,” Anthony answered, fetching his tea off the table and sinking back into the chair as he covered his forehead with his long fingers. “Er raised. Not practicing.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale sounded genuinely surprised by this.

“Didn’t I tell you?”

“Goodness, no!” He hummed, watching Anthony and tilted his head sympathetically at the hand on his forehead. “Explains the pork, then.”

“No. Vegetarian. _That_ explains the pork”

“Right you are.” He patted the pockets of his cardigan and looked around again. “Where’s that bag.”

“Your purse?”

“Yes, precisely. I think I have some Percocet with me.”

-♦-

Meanwhile, one Inspector Jon Gabriel had slammed face first into a proper dead end. The investigations on the confirmed forgeries were stuck and the sale reports had led him absolutely nowhere, with nothing to say on the issue of the Kepler case tossed on his desk in October. They’d been pulled apart and now, just at the end of the year, he was finally dragged back to where he’d started. Something was not quite right, but it was hard to find the exact point of where it had gone rotten. The phone was blinking, indicating that Mary, the secretary, was trying to reach the inspector.

Gabriel sat hunched over the papers, chewing on his thumb aggressively, which had done his nails literally no favors. This whole case had done his nails no favors. He wanted to curse or throw something, but that was pointless, and anyways...

The phone was blinking.

The phone was blinking.

Gabriel sat up like he'd had ice cubes dumped down the back of his shirt and snatched the receiver off the line. "Inspector Gabriel," he answered tersely. "You got something for me?"

"Uh, Mr. Gabriel, sir, there's someone on the line? Saying they may have fallen victim to that, um, well the forger. You’re working on. As well. A certain...." There was a distinct rustling of papers, which meant Mary was fidgeting. Not something she was known for. "Mr. Lucian Eosphoros?"

Mary sounded a little puzzled. That name sounded like it could be the villain out of a cheap Bond knock-off, but she was in no position to comment on that.

"Should I get him through?"

Lucian Eosphoros was a successful businessman. He owned several real estates, clubs and other things. He seemed to be involved in many business matters around London, and England in a whole, but something about that had always been fishy. Tax reports were too good for his establishments, his name was mumbled when something happened around one of his clubs. If he wanted to acquire a new place, and it wasn't for sale, he got it for cheap shortly after, since something like a minor fire had happened, or the cellar was flooded.

Odd strikes of fortune...

Worse, it was a rare opportunity to get to talk to the eponymous Lucian Eosphoros. And, generally, they had all these conversation on tape, so if a case were to build further after this obvious mobster, then it was basically Jon Gabriel's duty to answer.

"Yeah, Mary. Put him through."

Gabriel shifted in his seat, smoothing down his tie and the lapels of his suit, and quickly put the receiver back up to his left ear, which he could hear out of better anyways, waiting for the little click that the call had been patched through. Right. Deep breath. Be not afraid, Jon.

"This is Inspector Gabriel's office," he answered cordially.

There was a short, most definitely dramatic pause before a voice like velvet answered. Velvet that was hiding an assortment of sharp knives under it.

"Mr. Gabriel. I hope you are well. I don't think we ever had the honor of meeting in person, but I suppose that you know who I am.”

“Curious that you know who _I_ am.”

“Give yourself more credit here, Jon.”

Gabriel shifted again, at that little drop in formality. He avoided making any sound or comment on it on principle.

“Some little birds sang to me the other day that there is a series of paintings out there. Classics, you might say. Of the Rubens variety?” Another chance for Gabriel to comment, but he held onto a pen instead, waiting for something more. Already, Eosphoros was in hot water. They hadn’t released the artwork to the public yet. “Did I lose you, Jon?”

“Still here. Curious what you know about them.”

“Just that they’re not quite what they're pretending to be. Are they? And I fear I got fooled as well.... "

Gabriel, for his part, smoothed his hand absently down his chest, again and again, a silent nervous habit, which, over the phone, made it invisible to Mr. Eosphoros. His voice, thankfully, remained strong and firm.

"And where would these birds be singing from?" He laughed, like they were both two very old friends, even as he had his pen ready to jot down notes.

“I’m not quite at liberty to say.”

“Shame. I don’t know how I can help you.”

“Yes, you can, Jon.”

There were forked paths ahead of him. That much was clear. Gabriel stared at his legal pad on his desk, the little dots he’d made with the tip of his pen and leaned forward.

“If you agree to cooperate, I may feel inclined to give you some sort of deal, which we both know you might need in the future."

And a tail to see what the hell this man got up to in his spare time. They could nail him to the cross for something at last. But that was thinking too far ahead.

“That would be highly appreciated, Jon. As for where I heard about things, well, that poor disaster over at Michael Dinah’s gallery. You remember the one, don’t you, Jon?”

“So it seems….”

“I just picked up a new piece myself and it got me thinking…. I’ll send my protégée to bring it in for farther investigations. Since I’m not certain if this is a fake, I just want to give you the friendly reminder to handle it with caution, yes? I paid a rather large sum and I want to see the person that so foolishly tricked me punished.”

Eosphoros chuckled like someone sharpening knives. It rang so clearly over the line.

“I really do appreciate your good will, Mr. Gabriel. The police are truly a friend and helper to those in need.”

He tried not to wince at that, nodding to nothing.

"As I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Eosphoros," Mr. Gabriel answered, knowing that to agree to this was making a deal with the proverbial devil. Small sacrifices for the greater good. "Just give me the details of your man coming in tomorrow, and I'll be sure this remains beneficial to those of us involved."

He clicked his pen again, down up, down up, and put the nib to paper as he took some very limited information from the infamous Lucian Eosphoros. Damn him for being cryptic and overly conservative with what he shared, but it was better than nothing. Still, the conversation made Gabriel feel greasy and after he was done with the forced niceties of it all and they hung up, he ended up cleaning his hands with the sanitizer on his desk, feeling a little black spot on his soul.

"Dramatic," he grumbled about himself and laughed before he leaned forward and picked up the receiver. "Mary, you got all that, right?" No harm in getting it in duplicate.

“Some…Beez Prince should be coming tomorrow at noon?” Mary asked over the line.

“Sounds like it.”

“If I may be so bold to make a comment?” Mary waited, but Gabriel didn’t interrupt her. “This all sounded a little... suspicious, sir.”

“No shit.”

“Then why’d you strike a deal so soon?” No further comment from her boss told her she wasn’t going to get an answer today. “Right. I'll tell the people involved about Prince. Should be all ready to send to you. And you’ll be taking me out to lunch in…?”

Gabriel looked down at his watch and sighed apologetically. “Yes. Uh, half an hour?”

-♦-

If one were to make an entrance, they should make it a grand entrance and, barring that, an inconvenience. Or a threat.

Beez Prince showed up twenty minutes late, followed by two ominous men posted up on either side as they entered the building. They were spotless through the metal detectors, save for one gaudy broach that Mx. Prince wore clasped close to their throat. Everything about them, in regards to spotlessness, was that they simply were not. Their clothes had stains of many varieties, mostly near the legs, like they’d been kicking something into submission. Someone, more like. Their cuffs had similar issues and their collars were peaked to hide their necks. One of them had a tattoo that wrapped around his neck and disappeared into the frays of his scarf to protect against the oncoming winter.

The henchmen – and however else should one name them, really? Just look at them! – entered the building with a package that they seemed keen on delivering. It was similar to other packages that came to Gabriel’s department, so one could hazard a guess on what it would be, though it would have done better to put it in a briefcase or some sort’ve protective outerwear. Some wax paper and string didn’t seem appropriate. Neither were these two goons, but, there you have it.

Their leader, dressed in what looked like a morning coat, with that same broach, pinstripe pants, and black hair that refused to be tamed, stepped forward from the odd trio to Mary’s desk. Poor Mary didn’t react so much as she looked up and wasn’t sure how she should feel about them in the office.

“Prince?”

“I’m exzzpected,” they drawled with something of a charming little lisp. Again, completely at odds with everything else about them. “Meeting with an Inspector Gabriel. On behalf of Mr. Eosphoros.”

“Uh. Yes. Right.” Mary gripped a pencil she had nearby not at all in the way someone is supposed to grip a pencil. For starters, you don’t generally hold them like a knife. “Just a moment, he’ll be right with you!”

Mary picked up her receiver and pressed the button for the direct line to Mr. Gabriel’s office. It felt like an eternity, being stared at by Prince, until she finally heard him pick up.

“Yes, sir. They’re here. Right. Er…yes? Yes, right.” Mary nodded and motioned with the tip of her pencil back towards the door. “He’s ready for you.”

Beez Prince huffed and nodded in the direction of the office, signaling their men to follow. No knock. No really their style. Gabriel, for what it was worth, just smiled upon their entry and waited patiently behind his desk, looking calm and collected as ever. Coffee and a morning jog through the freezing cold.

“You must be Mr. Gabriel. I’m Beez Prince, those are my employees Mr. Hastur and Mr. Ligur. My boss sends all his gratefulness, yadda yadda...”

And weren't they a ray of sunshine.

Gabriel stood up, a pass of his hand down the lapels of his suit and went around his desk to greet them.

"You work fast," he answered and instead of shaking hands - did they really paint their nails black? How odd - he half-sat on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms. "Alright." Gabriel motioned with a little swing of his elbow in all their direction. "Let's see it then."

They snapped their fingers and one of the men, Hastur, was unpacking the painting. While he was at it, Prince checked the inspector with an aura of annoyed interest. They weren’t even subtle about it.

The painting, pulled out of its brown paper tomb, was definitely a Rubens. Or, well, definitely looked like a Rubens. Hastur propped it up, so all of them could take a better look. Prince stepped forward and positioned themselves beside the painting, their impromptu and very grumpy tour guide.

“Mr. Eosphoros acquired this piece through a dealer in the Prague. Further investigations from our side hinted connections to the one in Belgium that sold the fake van Dyck to Michael Dinah. You can understand that this made us a little suspicious and then we heard that there were other cases in the past, similar to the Dinah one….” Gabriel nodded but said nothing, letting them explain what they knew, hoping they might give away too much in the process. “We also heard, that you got someone who can tell them apart quite fast. Mr. Eosphoros does not appreciate it if things take longer than needed so, are you still in contact with that, mm, high-speed debunker?”

“Sorry, now?” Gabriel asked, looking up from the painting.

“Time is money.” They seemed to buzz their sibilants. Gabriel did his best not to twitch the corner of his mouth at that. “We would like to find the culprit that brought Mr. Eosphoros this…discomfort.” They didn’t like that choice of word, clearly, and tried again. “ _Embarrassment_. As soon as possible.”

There was the hint of a smirk at their last words, nothing more than a micro expression or a twitch. Gabriel wondered if they saw the same thing on his face.

“I do have all the documents with me. If you tell us where to drop our evidence? We’ll gladly deliver it. No extra work for you, Mr. Gabriel.”

It was almost breathtaking, the way Prince worked. Gabriel eyed them up, trying to see their game. Short and to the point, in a hilariously and stubbornly accurate way of the phrase.

"I mean, he's my guy. I can appreciate the need for speed here," Gabriel said cordially, not at all missing Prince's not-at-all-subtle glances, "but I should get the chance to warn them.”

“Warn them?”

“You can keep it here and I’ll be sure it reaches the right people.”

“Mr. Eosphoros is insistent—”

“Mr. Eosphoros is getting his evaluation and will be helping us in this investigation,” Gabriel answered.

“And you would help us by telling us where your man workzz.”

“Why’s that?”

“Speed. Efficiency.”

“Oh, I’ll be efficient,” Gabriel assured.

The dark and bushy brows furrowed, and an annoyed huff followed shortly after. Prince was tapping their foot while thinking hard, their henchmen looking at each other.

“I suppozz-“ they stopped, clearing their throat. “I suppose we can wait that long. Go ahead, call them. We’re waiting over here.”

Their smile was sharp and defiant, in a way that made Gabriel’s chest tighten even as they stepped back and helped one of their men rewrap the painting. Gabriel made a gesture that it was unnecessary, but it was already done, even as he slid over to the phone and picked it up. Gabriel just gave them a bland, forced smile as the dial tone beeped twice, then clicked to his secretary.

"Yes, Mary? Would you be a dear and patch me on through to...."

It made sense to call Aziraphale first, he was the conservator with the incredible eye for details. And, oddly, Gabriel felt they were more on the same side here. They were working together, and Mr. Fell's reports were invaluable, while Mr. Crowley had been...well, helpful, but something about the man just didn't sit right. Probably just a bias against his fashion or something. And that one arrest on his record that Gabriel knew about.

"Uh, to, uh, Mr. Fell." He turned his back slightly to try and muffle the name from Mx. Prince and their associates.

It didn’t go unnoticed. Beez Prince had sharp eyes, sharp eyes, sharp teeth. Their whole life had to be cut out to make room for them. One did not get a position in the Underground when you weren’t able to hear things you were not supposed to.

-♦-

A phone in Soho rang. It was not necessarily shrill, but it pulled a somewhat tetchy Aziraphale out of his work. He trotted over to pick up. He had just sat down for lunch, but his manners commanded him to answer the phone either way.

“A.Z. Fell, what can I do for you at this _lunch_ _hour_?” He had to be polite, yes, but no one forbade a little bit of passive-aggressiveness.

"Yes, hi! It's Jon Gabriel again from Interpol." Gabriel quickly checked the watch on his wrist, surprised at the time. Good thing Aziraphale had said something or he would have missed lunch. That, or Mary would have come in and dragged him out. She was good at that. "Uh, how are you?"

Gabriel shifted again and held up a finger to Prince and their helpers. _Just a moment._

Beez had pleasant thoughts of snapping that stupid finger off at the knuckle and making Gabriel eat it.

“ _Quite_ well, Mr. Gabriel.” Aziraphale bubbled up, even if he was hungry. Maybe _because_ he was hungry. “Is there a new, um, a new development?”

"Actually? Just what I wanted to call about. So, just came into contact with another piece and we'd really like both your speed and discretion with, uh, with this one. Do you think I could get you to review it, say, this afternoon?”

“Afternoon?” Aziraphale glanced over at a table that had his schedule on it somewhere, but he was quite happy to push anything out of the way. “I bet I could phone Ant- I could phone Mr. Crowley and see if he’s available?

“I was actually just going to phone him right after you." Gabriel wasn’t.

“I’m sure that’s alright. I’ll let him know.” Gabriel was relieved. “When do you think we’ll be seeing you?”

“Oh, uh…”

Aziraphale already had out his pocket watch and was shifting the landline against his ear so he could pull out his cell and text a quick message over to Anthony.

“Listen, I’m game, Mr. Gabriel. Just confirming with Anthony now, we’ll be settled in…an hour. That should do it. Right oh!”

“Right.”

“See you then. Ta!”

“Ta?”

Aziraphale ignored the inflection and set the receiver back down on the table instead of back in the cradle, excited to type out a new message to Anthony. He chewed his lips together, his face pinched with a happy smile.

> **Aziraphale:** Anthony! Just got a call from Gabriel. There’s another forgery we should see to. I’m over to your place in 20 minutes. I have a rosemary crisps with me this time. See you soon! [12:23 PM]

There was that spark of anticipation again, making his skin tingly and his heart hammered along with it. Finally! Some movement in the case. Surely he had assumed it would have all fallen off the face of the earth. Forgotten as the new year rang in. Though he might have to say this politely in private, it was damn close to a Christmas miracle.

Aziraphale hurried over to the small kitchen table to take at least some bites of his meals before packing the things he needed. He didn’t even wait for an answer from Anthony either. As he was finished with packing, he hurried outside, a cab on the way.

-♦-

Gabriel wrote down another little note for himself and had Mary ring up Crowley's Gallery to give him the details Aziraphale neglected to procure in his excitement. Unfortunately, it seemed to go straight on through to voicemail. As he spoke, Prince had made a mental note of the names. Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley.

Crowley. Now that rang a bell…

"Right. Well, they should be all set with you.”

“Give us the address and we’ll be on our way.”

“Shouldn’t I come with you?”

“You seem a busy man. We know how that goes.”

Gabriel licked his lips and tapped his pen against his thumb as he regarded them. It was just a painting. Couldn’t be too much harm. And, again, he trusted Aziraphale.

“Here's the address,” Gabriel finally said and handed the paper over. “Bring your work there and they'll give you a pretty good answer. Then we'll get your information and the pieces added to the catalogue to help with the investigation. Much appreciated.”

“Likewizzze.” Prince gave a quick, ironic salute. They pulled out a usually sleek business card. This one seemed like it had been touched with slightly greasy fingers, fingerprints standing out on the normally matte black surface. In golden letters, the name _Beez Prince_ was engraved, a number, and an email address right under it. Very tidy. Very tiny print. Prince pointed it in the inspector’s direction and waited until he took it, snapping again. Hastur and Ligur moved and made their way to the door with their repackaged painting. When they left, Gabriel felt he needed to wash his office down. Instead, he picked up his phone only to have Mary right there on the line.

“Lunch. Tell me everything, sir.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthony and Aziraphale make a shocking discovery after a Beez Prince stops by.

Anthony had taken a very nice, very hot shower that morning, with plenty of time to indulge in gently waking up and the natural quiet solitude to mull over his inspirations. He had half a remake done in his private workspace and wanted to sneak in some more time while he felt the draw of his muse.

The brush strokes. That's what Aziraphale had pointed out. He was going to need to take special care with the angle of the brush strokes. And it was over a beautiful figure. Truly gorgeous. Big and soft and plump in all the right places. Even then, simply imagining it in the shower as he leaned his face against one arm up on the tile wall, Crowley closed his eyes and pictured those loose shapes in cream-colored clothing, not quite attached to a familiar figure, and casually touched himself because it was morning, he was alone, and he was damn well allowed to.

But as he had himself in hand, stroking, he had a sudden thought of Mr. Fell moaning over his chocolate cake and gasped, bucking into his hand.

Oh wait.

No, wait, fuck.

Crowley finished his shower and didn't meet his own eyes in the mirror as he got around. Needed some protection! He slipped on his darkest shades yet. A nice black shirt and tight pants to keep things in fucking order, sir!

Aaaaand his phone went off. Right. From...yep! Aziraphale! Perfect!

Well, he was dressed anyways. He went to his kitchen and made himself coffee and an oatmeal. That instant garbage stuff. Not even decent porridge, which he should make, but it served it’s purpose, even though it was lunch time, waiting around for Aziraphale to pop in any moment.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was already getting out of the cab and had gathered up all his materials and headed straight away to Anthony’s door with a spring in his step. He brimmed with excitement and pressed the doorbell enthusiastically. As he waited for the door to open, the conservator even started to bounce on his heels.

After weeks without any news, they finally got the chance to see another potential forgery! Would it be a van Dyk, a Rubens? Maybe a different artist from that period? Would it be the work of their forger again or a copycat of a copycat? Oh, he couldn’t wait to uncover this! And the best was that it was simply a perfect excuse to do something with Anthony that wasn’t just café coffees and blurry wine-soaked evenings together!

There was a considerable pause. Not that that was unusual. Aziraphale, still giddy, shifted once more and tried the doorbell after two minutes of silence.

Right. And that was Aziraphale!

Anthony slipped away from his kitchen, leaving mug and hot oatmeal waiting to answer the door.

"Aziraphale! What a surprise!" Anthony laughed and stepped out of the way so he could enter, doing his best acting possible and presenting himself as warm and inviting and cool as hell. "You got that message from Gabriel?” Referring, of course, to a text message from Gabriel’s cell, though he suspected the message was repeated in the voicemail he had blinking in his inbox. “They found another one? This is wild."

"Surprise? I messaged you."

“I know you did. Rushed through lunch, then?”

Aziraphale retorted with a frown and stepped in, excitement taking over again almost instantly.

"Oh I couldn't sit still! How long have we been waiting for some headway with this. Truly, I thought it was all over. Sunk! The fiend could’ve gotten away, but, lo! Maybe I'll find something new. See the process of their development. What if I found a hair!”

“Hair?”

“Or a _finger_ print.”

Anthony was left to watch as Aziraphale made himself home. Straight on to the workspace they had shared previously, which wasn’t as neatly set up as before. There was blank canvas that had to be moved out of the way. The previous pieces were still on their easels, as Interpol hadn’t had the time to collect them. A plate with some stale half-eaten toast was waiting on the corner of the table and Anthony was so embarrassed to see it, he leapt forward and snatched it up, a hand hovering over it, as though to hide the evidence.

"You just got up, haven't you?” Aziraphale asked, finally looking up as he set out some diabolical little scraping thing from his collection of tools. His tone was gentle but teasing and he looked sternly across the room at his companion. “Really, have you been up all night again?"

Anthony had to chuckle. It was surprised out of him and surprised him in turn to hear it.

"Wow. Astute as ever," he said quietly. "You're a real certified detective there. Yeah, actually. I was having breakfast. You don't mind if I finish it while we chat? I bet I have some stuff in the fridge for you if you're hungry?"

He started back towards the kitchen, now a familiar path for them, knowing Aziraphale would follow if he was hungry.

"You know anything about this latest painting?" he called over his shoulder while we binned the old toast, put the dirty dish away in the sink, and plucked up his half-eaten oatmeal.

There was no telling how punctual Gabriel and his team would be. A half-formed guess from their honestly few interactions. As he didn’t know, it felt safe to abandon laying everything out and join Crowley. For he was hungry. Almost always.

"Nothing, to be quite honest. Gabriel sounded a little uptight.”

“You spoke to him?”

“On the phone.” _Obviously_. “I don’t know. Something about his tone…. Maybe he wasn’t alone? Or just in a hurry. Called me right before I could enjoy lunch, can you imagine?” A slight that wouldn’t be easily forgiven, Crowley knew. “So, I'm very grateful for your offer. Ah...I see some of that cheese from last time?"

While Anthony was going back to his oatmeal, Aziraphale got himself a nice little snack plate. He wasn't sure if that was only his imagination playing tricks, but the conservator suspected that his friend's fridge was stocked with more proper food now. More than before, that was for sure. He’d gone shopping. _Grocery_ shopping, even! There was even meat! Little selections of dried salami to go with the cheese and a summer sausage. Enough to make a nice little charcuterie with some olives and a jar of sundried tomatoes out of the cupboard, which Anthony pointed out helpfully around a mouthful. And then there were packets of tofu. Several different types of peanut butter. Vegetables in the crisper drawer and more on the shelves. Fruits. And eggs!

"Crackers are just behind you," Anthony reminded him as he licked off the last dregs from his spoon.

“Right.” Aziraphale reached for them, looking down at the nice plate he had for himself.

Well, at least the meat was a clear evidence for Hobby Detective Fell that Anthony had just bought all these things for him. Or maybe he had some meat-loving playthings? But there was a hint of doubt that the ever-so charming, "I'm too cool for you" Anthony Crowley would go to such lengths for a one-night stand. Only someone that was more than an occasional arrangement.

They had never talked about this. Why should they really? But Aziraphale’s mind wandered in that direction from time to time, imagining how Anthony was seducing his muses and vice versa. There might have been one or two guilt ridden wanks. Possibly.

He really should stop thinking about that right now. Not over a plate of antipasti!

"You really don't have to, you know," Aziraphale said with a smile in his voice, spreading the crackers out onto the plate. He didn't explain what he meant and started munching his improvised lunch instead after sitting down at the table.

For his part, Anthony didn’t ask to clarify, either. He did lift his chin a bit smugly behind is coffee, watching Aziraphale a moment. Would have winked, too, but it would have been wasted with the sunglasses on.

“Think nothing of it.”

After they had had the opportunity to get to know each other a little better, Aziraphale was certain that Anthony was a real sweetheart that tried to cover that fact up with the dramatics of a bohemian disaster artist. Well, now the conservator knew his secret and it was a delight, really. Sure, he didn't know much about Anthony's past, since he didn't like to talk about that, but he was sure of his instincts.

Yeah, alright. He liked to indulge Aziraphale. But it kept him happy when they ended up spending afternoons and evenings together and it was easier than always getting takeout. It was an act of convenience! That's all!

Some ten minutes later there was another knock on the door. Anthony had finished first, as he did often while eating in the company of others and had gone to wash the dishes. He looked up instead from where he was hand washing his bowl.

"Must be them." He snapped the towel gently in Aziraphale's direction. "Come on, Angel. Let's go greet them. Team effort and all."

"Team effort. And here I thought you’d have me go it alone."

Aziraphale chuckled but stood up anyways. He couldn't wait to get his hands on the new piece. What motive would it be? From which phase of the forger’s process? Those thoughts made him almost soar to the front door and he opened if with much vigor, a bright smile on his face that—

Aziraphale immediately froze.

Two sleezy gents in stained coats stood outside the private entrance. The one on the left was black, shorter, with tight curls and surprisingly vibrant green eyes. He grinned, and it looked like those teeth had recently taken out someone’s neck just by the angle of them. The one on the left was white, almost sickly, albino maybe? With unkempt white hair and bruises so dark they made his eyes look black. Aziraphale did not recognize them from Adam and had the distinct fear he was about to be mugged.

"Mr. Crowley?" the gentleman on the left asked, raising perfectly wicked eyebrow.

"I- uh, No, I'm. Ah. I’m Fell. A.Z. Fell. Uh. T-The conservator…in charge. May I ask who you gentlemen are? I don't think we’ve, uh, we’ve had the… _pleasure_. Of, uh, meeting?”

He was offering his hand for a shake, his brain working on the polite default setting than any common sense that should butt in and slam the door, lock it, and phone for help. Both men looked down at his offered hand and made no effort to take it. A relief, because those hands looked…well, they needed a good scrubbing. And Aziraphale knew a thing or two about neat hands and nails.

"We’re here on behalf of Mr. Eosphoros,” said the man on the right, his voice like crude oil and stale crisps. “May we come in?”

It was so peculiar to hear the request that Aziraphale simply stepped aside, making room for them.

“C-Can I!” Aziraphale started up like a bad engine in a mower, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Can I help you?”

“We’re here on behalf of Mr. Eosphoros,” the man on the right said again, almost annoyed he had to repeat himself.

“Yes. You said. Uh, only, I thought that perhaps Mr. Gabriel would be the, uh, the one—”

He couldn't even finish the sentence as the two stepped lively on to the gallery to where Anthony was going to be caught unawares. He was supposed to follow. Team. _Effort_!

“Uh, Anthony! I think you presence would be _highly_ appreciated!”

Anthony shook his hands clean and stepped out, only to spot some of Eosphoros’ goons coming in. Oh shit.

Oh _shit_.

Anthony gulped and cleared his throat, walking closer to them as they stood directly in his gallery. Don’t panic. There was absolutely no reason to think they might remember him. Especially not _Hastur_ , who had – didn’t matter. Didn’t matter! It was a brief run-in and, honestly, Anthony had done the sale with their superior, Pri—

 _Oh_ _shit_.

Hands in pockets, shoes creaking over the step, aforementioned Beez Prince stepped into the gallery, looking around like their overall feeling for most places they entered was unappealing at best, a perfect display of disdain and disgust. Their gaze fell on the stuffy white-blonde man and then to the lanky redhead. It lingered on him for a second longer as they placed themselves conveniently in front of the odd pair.

"Gentlemen," they said in the most bored and annoyed tone Aziraphale had ever heard. "Mr. Fell,” the said, gesturing a slim hand at Aziraphale and nodded that they had guessed it right with no indication from either Aziraphale or Anthony. “And Mr…Crowley.” Once more, that lingering, wondering look in their eye, which was quashed soon enough, plowing on ahead. Literally, in fact, because they stepped away before Aziraphale could think of anything to say, exploring their surroundings. “This is your gallery?”

Crowley was as helpful as ever by answering with naught but a gulp.

“Kinda empty.”

“Mm.”

"Does that make you a bad dealer?” Beez pivoted back to face them again, their hands back in their pockets. “Or a good one?”

“I’m—”

“Muzzt be good.” Their lips pressed into a bloodless line and they shrugged. “Listen, fellas, we’ll make this quick. My boss, a Mr. Eosphoros?” The name hung out there a moment in hopes of catching either of their attention. It was the sunglasses, of course, that hid the dilation of Crowley’s eyes. “He was quite impressed by the speed you put into uncovering that van Dyck. He hopes that you'll be as quick and successful with bringing light to our case as well. He would not be opposed to spend a little extra for your inconveniences, if you understand my _point_."

Aziraphale huffed. That was a threat, surely, and a bribe, plainly! It wasn't the first time he experienced something like this, but it was never pleasant to be faced with it with such sheer audacity! His own workshop was a prime location and there were many interested parties. They had the decency to try and wine and dine him before they attempted to _fuck him over_. And suppose the money in this negotiation was something but it bristled him. And with those two henchmen in the background? Ludicrous!

"Mr. Eosphoros is hoping for you discretion, of course. Wouldn't be too nice if word spread that he was victim of this infamous forger, before things are cleared, you know.”

“Infamous now?” Aziraphale asked, not quite hiding his rancor for this little song and dance.

“Word travels,” Beez said calmly, leaning back to eye him up and down. Then glanced towards the easels. “You'll have 48 hours. If anything should go wrong, you can call in." They tucked another of their filthy business cards out of their breast pocket and handed it over. Aziraphale seemed more present than Anthony and took it from them.

"So, any questions? No? Good. I'll leave the rest to you professionals. Hastur. Ligur. We're leaving."

“You are?” Aziraphale shouldn’t sound so relieved.

“Prior engagement,” Beez answered and snapped their fingers. The two henchmen came alive, as it were, and put themselves next to their boss. “Call us soon as it’s done or we’ll be calling you.”

And, with that, the unpleasant guests left. Not without a final glance back at Mr. Crowley, like he was a puzzle soon to be solved.

Aziraphale blinked, stunned by the strange show that had took place before them.

"Anthony....” He turned onto his friend, his head tilted curiously. “Were these people mobsters?"

"Yeah," Anthony answered plainly, his voice dark and rough, before he cleared his throat and straightened back up. "Yeah. Uh, you…d’you know Mr. Eosphoros? Doesn't matter," he added immediately and shook his head. "Uh, but. Yeah. Yes. Right. Look at the paintings. We'll be quick about this one. Get them back out of the gallery."

Fuck they didn't need fucking Prince and their lackeys coming back here. They knew his address! Didn't seem to recognize him, not fully, so that was a bonus for him, but they knew Anthony's name, they knew Aziraphale's name, they knew the painting was likely a forgery. Anthony was already spinning with ideas, trying to remember if he had his bug-out bag packed upstairs.

No. No, okay. That's just catastrophic thinking there. Dr. Wilcox had told him to take a few deep breaths and pull back to the moment, focus on his hand clenched, index finger, middle finger, and...right. Right. Calm down. Think clearly. Not the worst thing in the world! Fucking mobsters had a little inkling into your affairs, but, hell, it's not like they'd remember that sale. Mr. Eosphoros infamously liked to purchase art pieces for his, what, his castle? No proof he had one, but it felt right that he should. Either way, that's on him. Prince didn't remember him. Mr. Hastur didn't remember him. And that mark on his jaw had faded from the crowbar so even Anthony's bones had forgotten about the encounter. Win win win. Excellent. Good job!

Anthony went over to his own desk and dropped into his chair, a man possessed with good worth ethic all the sudden, and started pouring over his files to make certain he could erase his previous involvement with Mr. Eosphoros before anyone else found it, hoping Aziraphale had all he needed to look over the paintings. Hoping, too that Aziraphale didn't think Anthony was acting strange, because he was, but he was trying really, really, really hard not to.

Course, it was obvious, no matter how hard he tried. Aziraphale watched him with a frown as Anthony literally threw himself into work. Well, maybe it was just a case of nerves. Mobsters could be very frightening.

“I live in Soho,” Aziraphale offered to break the worried silence. Anthony startled and looked up, shaking his head just the tiniest amount to indicate he wasn’t tracking. “I _hear_ things. Plenty of people suspect he’s some kind of underworld boss. You know, leading a criminal society and all that? At the very least, he’s a stubborn loan shark. And I think I got a visit from one or two of his lackeys once. Briefly, before you ask. Left the shop and never turned up again...."

Anthony slowly sat back from his desk, his hands flat on the surface before him. He wasn’t entirely sure what Aziraphale meant, but he was thrilled to hear it.

“But, I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale continued. “On to work!”

With that fun little battle-cry out of the way, Aziraphale got his trusty notebook and tools out of his leather satchel before carefully unwrapping the item that Prince and company had left. Or…hold on. _Items_. There were three paintings here. Three! Inspector Gabriel had just mentioned the one! When did this…? Well! It was a boon, that’s what it was! Surely, even with them being fakes, Eosphoros must have paid a fortune for these.

“With his ill-gotten money, no doubt,” Aziraphale said softly to himself.

Aziraphale started to inspect the first painting, a religious scene. Quite common for the era, of course, patrons from the Church and all that. Everything looked very accurate and in order. Exquisite detail, one could fall into those gentle brushworks and soft layers for hours. And even if he sighed wistfully over the drapery, Aziraphale still caught it. Right there, a small section of the background. It was that little funny signature, and the more he followed it, the more he could spot it around the painting. This must be one of the forgers earlier works.

“You know," Aziraphale started, sitting back with those magnifying glasses stuck on his face, blowing up his eyes to cartoonish proportions. "He's one of the people I do not feel any remorse for in the slightest, regarding that he has fallen for forgeries. Someone who thinks he can buy three Rubens... Seriously.”

Aziraphale had looked up and was concerned by how tense the wiry frame of his friend looked. It may not have helped that his blue eyes were showing their concern in a five times bigger scale now. He looked like a cartoon character.

“Anthony, dear. Is everything alright? You're not looking good..."

Anthony glanced up from his files and had to quickly cover his mouth. He'd been spiraling for a moment there, really falling down the proverbial hole as he considered where Eosphoros was going to dump his body and all, when Aziraphale looked so damn concerned over there with his ridiculous gear. It pulled him right back up out of it and he snorted into his hand, his shoulders shaking with his captive laughter.

"Sorry," he muttered quickly, pulling himself back together. Calm, cool, collected. Aziraphale blinked several times up at him before he realized how he must look. He smiled and pushed the glasses up on his head.

“It’s alright. Are _you_ alright?”

"Sorry, yeah. You found something then, Angel?"

And, with that perfectly distracted smile in place, Crowley pushed himself up from his desk and sauntered over, arms crossed once he was at the displays, and looked down at his work. One early, one recent, and one that...actually, hold up. That one wasn't his, was it? Damn, yeah, a man obsesses over pieces when making replications, but he honestly couldn't remember if he had a hand in that one or if it was someone else's? There was plenty of competition in the market, surely. Probably. Had to be. Or it was the real deal, and wouldn't that be a riot?

“Yes. Yes, I think I have a timeline. A guess, mind you. You see the lines here? They were quite good back then but it’s lacking the finesse of their recent work. I suspect one of his earlier forgeries. I haven’t checked the other’s…”

The conservator dropped his glasses back on and got closer to another piece. Magnificent as always, really. Distractingly so. Yet Anthony’s demeanor was worrisome. More likely his friend’s behavior was a distraction from the artwork. He should sort his priorities. It’s just…. Well, Anthony seemed so jumpy, unsure. Nervous even! It wasn’t like him, really, to show fear.

Without looking up from the painting, Aziraphale kept on talking.

“What about you? You ever met that mysterious Mr. Eosphoros? I heard the wildest stories of how he ought to look. People really start to fantasize a lot if they only get a morsel of information, you know. Some said he’s a vampire. Can you imagine? Though I think that one came up during a Halloween party and that young man in his sexy Dracula costume was quite tipsy then….”

“Sorry. D’you just say ‘sexy,’ and ‘Dracula’ in the same sentence?” Anthony may have his arms crossed and body wound tight, but he turned on Aziraphale and laughed.

“I may have,” Aziraphale answered with a sniff.

“At a costume party.”

“Yes. Generally, that’s where you see them.”

“Yeah, but I don’t see _you_ going to costume parties.”

“Oh, I have the most delightful piece.” Aziraphale leaned in closer and grinned, glad to have this teasing again. “A proper French dandy. _Aristo_ , you might say.”

“What?”

“It looks charming! I even got some slippers!” He laughed. They both laughed and the air warmed a little. “You should see them.”

“I would pay to see them, yeah.”

“Least it wouldn’t cost you a fortune like these then.”

“Yeah,” Anthony said, souring a little again as he turned to look at them. “Fortune.”

“Can you imagine?” Aziraphale pressed, lost on the thought of fantasies.

Aziraphale shouldn’t be the one blaming other people for their fantasies though. He may not have some about the ominous King of London’s Underworld, but he did harbor a few very specific dreams about his good friend here, right beside him. Really, he should stop himself. It certainly was due to the fact that he hadn’t been laid in ages. Sure, he wasn’t the youngest anymore and dating was a tiresome task but Aziraphale was not dead yet. And he was a very sensual person, after all. Oh, but a cuddle. Or some hand holding. Kissing! What he wouldn’t give for kissing! Let alone a dick he could—

That still did not excuse the indecent thoughts that started to bubble up more and more about Anthony. Sometimes they just came unbidden during his private times. Masturbation wasn’t an issue for him, but it was becoming an issue if he kept _moaning_ Anthony’s name aloud when he was close to climax.

Aziraphale had to physically shake to get out of this state of mind. They had work to do.

“I do, um.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, struggling to remember what they were talking about. “I do wonder what’s like. Have you ever seen him?”

Had Anthony met the Devil of London?

Yes.

Did Aziraphale need to know that?

"Haven't had the pleasure, unfortunately," Anthony answered, lifting his chin up again, slightly smug once more. It was a protective shell like that, wasn't it? Abso-fuckin'-lutely.

The paintings did look familiar. All of them. Yeah. Yeah, no, Anthony knew these. Well, he was a master about Rubens - came with the territory.

"So, well, you figured out it's a forged one. Brushstrokes, right?" Anthony laughed. "Messed up on the fabric again or what?" This was like the hardest form of critique in the world, from a wonderfully naive and kind soul who was still very casually shredding his technique! Damn.

Aziraphale looked up again - once more the short-sighed mole with those ridiculous glasses – and then turned back to the painting.

"Yes. Right! The strokes.” He blushed but didn’t know or say why. “Like I said, I think it's a pretty early piece and I wouldn't call it ‘messed up.’” His inflection spoke of the air quotes he wanted to put around the phrase. “It's a learning process and their signature. Maybe they got a little impatient here, with that bush in the background. In theory, it would’ve been covered up anyhow. If I wouldn't know what to look for, this one would be a little harder to grasp, to be honest. It's so dark... "

He tugged on Anthony's arm to pull him closer. This way, he could show him exactly what he meant.

“I’ve found that artists tend to get a bit sloppy in the darker areas. Think the color will mask their sins. You see? Here. " He pointed out a particular part of a very dark bush. And even as he pointed it out, Aziraphale’s face got soft again. "So much talent, even back then. I dearly wish more people nowadays would not only appreciate the old master's works but be willing to approach it their way as well.

"I'm not opposed to development in techniques and technology, whatever my look and demeanor might make you think. But...I think some of those things that make their pieces timeless and beautiful simply gets lost along the way. That's why I want to preserve them. And this artist, they copy for nefarious purposes, but they're also able to give the pieces the same kind of – of spirit, you know?"

Aziraphale sighed wistfully. This was another thing he shouldn't do. Woo over the work of a criminal. But he couldn't help it! Those forgeries warmed his old-fashioned heart.

"Be honest with me here Anthony, do you really like what is sold as modern art these days?"

He turned his face up to his friend, the ghost of his pure and unadulterated admiration for the work before them still visible. A moment more lost in those giant magnified eyes, and Anthony might accidentally lean down and kiss him or something.

It wasn't at all the worst idea he had had today.

But, Anthony took a deep breath and glanced away, taking in the slightly musty and intoxicating smell of his friend, before he focused on the painting.

Aziraphale did say a lot of pretty things about it, didn't he? One could feel their heart pattering faster at the praise, so open and earnest, not quite for him, but just for him.

"Honestly?" Anthony grinned and craned over the painting. "It has its merits. You can't denounce artwork created today. Have you seen the portraits of Kehnide Wiley? Their vibrancy is astounding, the detail in the portraits themselves. Atul Dodiya? A Jackson Pollock knock-off or bold political statements building up like skeletons, like leaves dancing around a soul?"

Anthony laughed and shook his head.

"They have their merits,” he repeated and orbited around Aziraphale’s shoulder. “They have their assholes too. If I hear another story about garbage mistaken at a contemporary museum, I'm going to go out, purchase a hat, and eat it. Until then?" He shrugged and sighed and looked down again. "But there really is something romantic about the classics. I love them," he whispered honestly.

"Oh, I agree with you wholeheartedly on that, dear. But I can't blame that poor cleaning woman who accidentally destroyed a Beuys.”

It was a cozy, familiar and somehow intimate moment here. Sure, they had talked about art a lot. They talked about everything when they had their little meetups over the time they knew each other now. That was the thing that was so appealing about Anthony in the first place. Despite their differences – and the Lord knows, both had their very own opinions on things – they could always find common ground, even in disagreeing. The more surprising thing was how much they actually had in common. And how they complimented.

Seeing Anthony's unguarded and honest expression now was a very rare thing. Even without knowing him for long, Aziraphale was sure that this was something fragile, so this beautiful moment would be kept safe in the back of his mind. It gave him a warm feeling, like the pleasant warmth of a cocoa that rushed down your throat on a crisp winter morning. He could feel his cheeks getting warmer and he glanced away, feeling like he had done something inappropriate.

He cleared his throat and that knocked the world back into order.

"Well.... At least we agree on that. Now I'm taking my attention back to this one here and I think I might have disturbed you in your ambitious task, haven't I?"

"Oh."

Anthony blinked out of his reverie, stiffening his shoulders a bit, standing taller. All the pieces of his wall slamming back into place where they belonged, though he tried to do so pleasantly, so Aziraphale wouldn't worry so much.

"Right. Yes. I, uh, I had a receipt. From a friend."

Anthony's voice trailed off naturally, and he returned to his desk and his task of fucking up the paper trails enough for both Jon Gabriel of Interpol and Lucien Eosphoros of the London Underworld.

Still. It really had been a pleasant and open moment and, despite his rambling fears and expectations of what might come should he misstep in all this, Anthony was humming to himself happily, and smiled over his documents and computer screen. He, too, tucked the warmth away in the back of his mind while the both of them worked and wasn't ashamed to let Aziraphale see him be a tad more...friendly. In this somewhat intimate setting they had for themselves.

It was a companionable quiet they worked in, only the clacking of Anthony's fingers on the keyboard, his light humming, and occasional shuffling and huffs from Aziraphale's side. It could go on for quite some time, if they let it. If Aziraphale hadn’t suddenly stopped, his whole body vibrating with his discovery and the way he suddenly shot up, like a rocket that should take off to escape orbit. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he rushed back to the table to grab a catalogue, frantically skimming through the pages until he found his prize.

It went on for some time, the conservator switching between the two remaining pieces, completely engrossed in his work. Suddenly, his movements and sounds stopped. It was only a moment, but enough to be noticed. Then, there was a bursting of activity. Aziraphale almost tripped over his own feet as he rushed back to the table to grab a catalogue, frantically skimming through the pages. The catalogue landed floor with loud bang, as it slipped out of his hands. Anthony would have gladly thumped his head onto his desk, either from boredom, frustration, or general defeat. Instead, he was startled awake by Aziraphale's actions.

"Dear Lord. My word.” Anthony almost said something at that, at his choice of words, when Aziraphale, pale as a sheet, picked up the book and flipped it around for Anthony to see. “A-Anthony, my dear boy. This one.... It's.... It's a Rubens. A real Rubens!"

There was no fucking way....

Well, no, that wasn't true. There was plenty of ways it could be...possibly. Or someone out there was a better forger than he was?

Anthony quickly vaulted out of his chair then and came over, stepping gingerly around the papers scattered in Aziraphale's exuberance and leaned over him, gripping his shoulders for support.

"No," he said, his voice soft and wavering into disbelief. "No it isn’t. It can’t be.”

“It’s!” But he didn’t continue, just tapping the catalogue in front of them.

“Truly? Alright, Angel, no.”

“No?”

“Because _think about it!_ We aren’t…we don’t find the real ones! Right? Because…because!” Even Aziraphale’s face showed how weak an argument that was. “But it’s….” His own words were failing as he looked at the catalogue again. Why was his chest so tight? “We need to phone Gabriel and his people."

He stared down at the piece, at the expansive beauty of it all, and finally took the time to really, really, truly take it in. Crossing his arms, Anthony held himself. God help him, it was breathtaking, actually.

The conservator took a deep breath and covered one of Anthony's hands on his shoulder with his own, giving it a pat.

“We will. If it’s the real Rubens, you know what this means?” Before Anthony could fathom a guess, Aziraphale hoisted the catalogue higher. "According to this, this piece should be the property, or at least stored in, a museum in Berlin. The catalogue is fairly new and an auction or sale of such a masterpiece would have gone through the media, don't you think? When was the last time you heard about the sale of an old master's?"

Aziraphale swallowed audibly. If Eosphoros stole it?

“Obviously we need to tell the authorities,” Aziraphale agreed, but it wrinkled him somehow. “What will they do?”

He looked at Anthony. Aziraphale couldn't help but bite his lip in worry. It was one thing to politely tell some brainless gorillas to please fuck off, but reporting a potentially stolen masterpiece to Interpol, while investigating some forgeries for a mob boss? That was a different thing entirely. They knew their faces. They knew where Anthony worked. They could piece it together quickly where Aziraphale worked, surely. What did that mean for them?

"Yeah," Anthony said slowly, backing away. "Yeah, okay. Okay, we actually need...to...think on this. We...."

He turned away completely and just took off at a not-at-all-sprint-but-not-very-leisurely-walk to his kitchen.

"Anthony?!" Aziraphale called after him, completely baffled.

After a moment of shock, he followed. A slight concern that he may be climbing out one of the windows, adding the fear of being left behind. He just rounded the corner and looked into the kitchen.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

-♦-

Meanwhile, in another, not more specified area in London, Beez Prince was standing nervously in front of their boss. They had given their report, as always. And, as always, everything had gone as planned. Well....

Almost.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to cook some dinner! What a surprise!

"So. As you’ve said, " the figure on the enormous leather chair said with a too calm voice for such a situation, "that you took the real Rubens from Berlin, which may I remind you was very hard to acquire, Prince. You remember. We lost that one chap. The one with the hair.” He gestured vaguely, as he often did, when he didn’t want to remember the little details but wanted to remind the idiot before him that they were always, always, _always_ in mortal danger. “That very one, yes?”

Prince shifted and opened their mouth, but their boss carried on.

“You took it, yes?” Prince nodded. “And you carried it around London. To Interpol. To their _head investigator on this case._ And then? Then to a conservator and an art dealer who will absolutely be able to tell it’s the real Rubens, yes?"

He smiled humorless, clapping his hands together. The sound was so sharp, Prince almost flinched. Almost.

"I.” Prince’s fists were in their jacket again, their stance as neutral as they could make it. Bored. Every inch of them tense for the physical ache of fear but doing their damndest not to show a shred of it. “Look. I went to your residence, _like you asked_. That’s what Eric gave me. You can't blame me on this one, zzzzir.” Their mouth thinned a moment, but they pressed on. “I'm not much of an art person anyhow."

Well. Prince could have checked the description that they had been given before they left. And perhaps they had threatened Eric _a little_. But it was so easy! And now, this was Eric's main problem. Poor sod, really.

Lucien Eosphoros sighed and stood up, scratching his chin.

“Well.... Guess we'll have a word then, Eric and I. As for you? I want you to wait until we hear from their investigators. When you go retrieve my property, I want you and your men to remind the very kind gentlemen that they should keep their discretion.” Lucien’s smile was benign, easy going, his voice smooth and gentle. “Do we understand each other now?”

Beez nodded, their shoulders relaxing slightly. They were on safe grounds again.

"I understand, sir.” They shifted again, their stomach flipping. “May I. May I ask you something?"

The man in question sighed but made a gesture for his protégé to go ahead.

"The name Anthony Crowley ring any bells for you, sir?”

There was a moment of pause.

"No.” It was impossible to tell if he was lying. A gift of his, really. It put him such a position as to knock Beez off their feet every time. They rubbed their fingers together in their pockets and nodded as Lucien flicked his eyes back to them. “ I think that situation in the west end needs your attention."

Summarily dismissed. Maybe they still had a foot in the frying pan, so it was paramount they did _something_ to Mr. Fell and Crowley, that was for damn certain.

-♦-

Anthony, face-deep in his cabinets, grabbed one of his bottles, and turned to start fighting with the cork.

"I'm thinking!" he insisted, staring through Aziraphale, absently rubbing along his jaw. A simple action and a gentle reminder that, uh, fuuuuuck getting your jaw wired shut. He frowned and cleared his throat, looking up at Aziraphale, holding out the bottle. "You want any? Clears the head. Let me get another."

He turned back around and started pulling more and more, arranging them on the counter like he was going to be pouring them a flight. It was not panic. No, not at all. Definitely not. They'd been working hard, and they had made a miraculous discovery! This was celebration. This wasn't because Lucien Eosphoros scared the bleeding daylights out of him.

This looked like Anthony was expecting a whole group of royal navy sailors and Aziraphale was pretty sure that getting uninhibited pissed now was not the cleverest choice. He stepped forward, face still in a frown and laid a firm hand on the wiry shoulder.

"What is wrong?” Aziraphale stepped forward and got a hold of one of Anthony’s shoulders, tugging him away until they were facing each other. “Talk to me.”

Aziraphale had mastered the art of piercing through someone with a look that was equally annoyed yet completely unveiling the depths of their soul. It made Anthony gulp is what it did.

"Take a deep breath. And then you're going to tell me what’s going on with you."

That was no request. No, that was very clearly an order. And, oh, what a funny thing, how easily Anthony relaxed, staring down at Aziraphale.

"Er...y...yeah. Yes," he answered slowly and wrinkled his nose a bit, reluctantly standing straight up again. He quite liked being all bent down so he was sort've closer to Aziraphale's face.

Couldn't imagine why.

"Uh, I...had...a run in. With Mr. Eosphoros? I mean, with him. His folks, I mean. And just the once. But I've...I know, uh, I know Prince. And one of their goons they dragged in with them. Not a biblical sense," he added quickly with a little laugh, because injecting levity seemed the only way to keep his calm exterior even remotely in place. "But, we've met. Was it friendly? It was not. I don't think...." He glanced towards the door anyways. "I don't think they really remember me. It's been years, you know. Changed my hair."

Anthony laughed lightly and fiddled with one of his almost-curls, which he had tamed into a masterful mess of perfectly sculpted bedhead. Too perfect to be real.

Aziraphale’s grip and look softened a little and the concern made itself more present again. So. Anthony had made a silly mistake some years ago. And, sure, that mistake had been with a certified mobster, but nobody’s perfect. Sometimes you leap at joining up with a gang. Sometimes you saunter vaguely towards criminal activity. Azirpahale sighed but didn’t stop looking right at his friend’s face.

“How many years? What had happened back then- wait.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, closing the chapter on that part of Crowley for him, and held up his hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t need to know, really.”

He took a deep breath himself. Alright, so some gangsters were after the same forger they were and, unfortunately, they had brought them a most certainly stolen or otherwise illegally acquired Rubens while Interpol was involved. And, to top this all off, they knew Anthony from a somewhat shady part of his past. Great.

Had Aziraphale fallen asleep while watching telly at Tracy’s? Surely not, to his own misery. He could feel anxiety percolating just under his own collar and one must tame it before it gets out of hand and burns the town down. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Right. Yes! It’ll all be tickety-boo. M-maybe we should call Mr. Gabriel and ask for their secrecy? And some...er...help from the police?”

Maybe they should. Anthony opened his mouth to agree and then sneered, talking between his teeth. “Snitches get stitches, don't they?"

What a dumb thing to say. Snitches on the Devil of London didn't get stitches. They got a bloody coffin! Probably! Probably literally!

"I don't even know what Gabriel would do, but I don't think we should have it here. What if we called...I don't know...the Berlin Museum? They must have a fake then? Maybe we should pop you over there to investigate. You could spot their fake and work with them to figure out the pattern."

And it would get Aziraphale out of the country a bit until arrangements could be made to get them out of the spotlight of Lucien's eye. Smart. Yes! Anthony puffed up a little at the thought. He was going to save his friend and then disappear himself out into the country for a few months and it'd all be back to normal once more. Perfect. Excellent!

“I don’t think so.” Anthony deflated almost instantly at Aziraphale’s answer. “Look here, dear boy. The catalogue only mentions this piece in their collection. That doesn’t mean it’s out for the public all the time, you know.”

Anthony did, but Aziraphale didn’t have to be right about everything.

“There’s too many variables, really. I don’t know if I want to be involved in another criminal case now. We have the one.”

“The one?”

“ _Our_ forger.”

Oh. _Right_.

Aziraphale walked around Anthony and got one bottle of sparkling wine. He uncorked it with his hand, taking a big gulp before releasing a satisfied gasp at the carbonation before offering it to his partner in crime. The cork was still in his white-knuckled hand and one should not admire how easily he had done that. The strength. Hidden under all those layers…. How he drank and his throat moved….

“Our—”

“Yes. And, well, let’s just think a moment, shall we? Yes! The painting.”

As Anthony hadn’t taken the bottle right away, Aziraphale took another drink. Two more. Oh, he gulped it down and Anthony flicked his tongue behind his teeth in sympathy.

“We take this Rubens?” Aziraphale said through the strain of bubbles prickling his throat. “It disappears and they’ll come after us, won’t they? Criminals. No, no. No. No, we call them back and have them collect it and we play it off as if we never discovered its true identity. People can be sloppy. We are people. I am a people – er… person.”

He turned an accusatory eye down to the bottle, licked his lips, and drank again to push down that bubble of nerves that was threatening to burst. Anthony may have had a point, getting out so many bottles. His point was bad, but it was still a point.

How did this happen? Aziraphale had thought that this was a nice little adventure that would whirl up the rut of his boring life a little. Some action from the sidelines, an honorable mention, perfect. But now he was faced with real criminals that had a terrible reputation enough to make his stomach curdle. This was a little too much excitement for Aziraphale’s personal taste.

“They surely are not well versed in the world of art. They may not notice. And when they’re gone, we can tell Gabriel! Yes, that sounds like a solid plan... what do you say?”

Anthony blinked and looked up at the conservator seriously.

"You're suggesting we lie," he said finally. "And let them take an actual honest to god Rubens out and let them....'handle' it."

Yes, well, Anthony reached for the bottle, stealing it before Aziraphale could finish it off and quickly took a swallow, ignoring the burn of carbonation as long as he could stand it. Proved quite a bit, in the end, as the alcohol glugged out, the bottle now standing half-empty.

“It wouldn’t be straight out _lying_.” Aziraphale stifled a little burp. “More like...self-protection. We’re not the right people for it, Anthony. We’re an artist and a conservator! We will tell Interpol about this new discovery, as soon as we’re safe. They had that painting in their possession anywhere from now to three years, according to the dates in the catalogue. A few more weeks won’t hurt anybody, and the police will be pleased to have an actual case connecting with Eosphoros!”

Aziraphale took the bottle out of those long hands, brushing fingers in the process. It made him shiver, but Aziraphale hoped it would be seen as one of overall tension. He took another swig before continuing.

“I think such a thing is called a ‘win won.’”

"'Win-win,'" Anthony corrected on habit, quietly, almost into his shoulder.

He was relaxed back against the counter once more and slowly crossed his arms, perhaps digging his fingers a little harder into his own arm from the brief contact with Aziraphale's, but saying nothing of the fact.

There still seemed plenty of reasons mounting against them why they shouldn't lie to Mr. Eosphoros. But, hell, Gabriel had to be competent. Probably. He had to trust Interpol. _Yeugch_ , the thought alone made him want to scrape his tongue across his teeth, but he simply rolled his eyes and breathed out a long, dragged out sigh.

"Yeah. Alright." Anthony crossed his legs at the ankles and became a long, lean line of black and red, smiling with his nose tipped slightly upwards. "We lie to them. You're right. It's probably the best solution we have. But if anything goes dicey, Angel, you come to me first. Deal?"

“Deal.”

He said it without another thought. They had tumbled in this together, of course he would come to the only other individual in the same situation. Gabriel was a man of the law, sure, but he gave of the feeling of someone who would gladly sacrifice a pawn for the greater good. Aziraphale may not be 20 anymore, but he surely was too young to be thrown into the Thames, with a pair of new concrete shoes to boot.

He smiled at Anthony; his own shoulders slumped due to the pleasant fizzle of sparkling wine. They were just looking at each other, the silence hanging like icing between them, when Aziraphale’s phone started ringing. He almost jumped and cursed under his breath as he fiddled it out of his trousers pocket. Whomever it was made Aziraphale groan to see the name, but he still picked up.

“Richard, hello!” He started with an overly polite and cheery tone. “Ah yes. Yes, I’m so very sorry that I haven’t answered, but I was called to an emergency appointment an — yes. Yes — Yes, well, there is such a thing as an emergency in my field of work.” He looked at Anthony and rolled his eyes. “What? Tonight? Oh thank you, but I don’t think I’ll be able to make it. I do have a lot of work to do, I’m afraid. Yes — Yes I’ll contact you as soon as I’m free. I’ll be sure to tell her. Mmhmm. Yes...er... I’m looking forward to it as well. Ta-ta.”

Finally, Azirpahale pressed the little red button and lowered the phone with a deep sigh.

“I dare you.”

Anthony opened his mouth and shut it immediately again.

Well, good to see Aziraphale was very comfortable with lying! Wait...was that a good thing to see? Well, maybe he was happy to constitute an emergency in Aziraphale’s book. Whoever he had blown off.... Either way, Anthony was smiling. He set the bottle back down on the counter and tilted his face again, half-cocked to the side.

"Mmm." He tasted his own lips, the sparkling wine, the twist of amusement plain on his face. "Quite. So, busy tonight? Uh, and who exactly are you so busy with paperwork tonight?"

"Let me see. I think it's a flashy gallery owner with a questionable past, who would most likely kill himself with all those bottles of wine otherwise."

“He sounds daft.”

Aziraphale giggled and scrubbed his forehead. “Just a bit.”

Anthony wanted to ask who Richard was and what that was all about, but Aziraphale could keep his secret Dicks as much as he liked. Or even indulge in them. Crowley wasn't going to be a jealous man over a friend. Quite right. Because evidence stated... Aziraphale chose _him_ for the night.

"Seriously, though. It is a bit urgent.” Aziraphale looked back. “Must more interesting than a lame date. I mean, who can compete with stolen classical art? Impossible! "

The mention of the original brought back a shiver of fear. To not fall into a panic again, Aziraphale tried to concentrate on the more mundane topic presented between them, as Anthony’s eyebrows were climbing as high as they possible could in request for even a sliver of answers to his questions.

"Tracy tried to set me up again,” Aziraphale answered, sounding a bit tired of it all. “I don't know why I keep on agreeing, really. He's a... nice guy. Broker or something and slightly younger...." Aziraphale sighed and eyed the open bottle again. "And why am I telling you all that? Surely, it's the sparkling wine speaking."

Anthony was a bit stuck on that. Meeting up. With a nice guy. Slightly younger.... Couldn’t dwell on it, could he? He had stolen Aziraphale away from a date! He really did have his own secret Dicks and Harrys, didn't he?

“You can’t blame it all on the wine, Angel.”

“I can if I like.”

Anthony shrugged and Aziraphale fiddled with the buttons of his coat, as he was want to do. And why _should_ he be nervous, really? Why should he blab? He did so because it was his nature, fretting. And because it was so easy to open up to Anthony, for whatever strange reason. He waited for the mockery to come, anticipating some horrible jibe.

Again. Not a jealous man. No, Aziraphale was his friend and apparently about to be his partner in crime and that was pretty good, considering just a few months prior Anthony had, at most, occasional drinking buddies and business partners and rubes he riled up at competing galleries, but no one so close as to be labeled an actual friend.

God, was he lonely?

No. Right. Because he had himself and he was amusing enough as is.

Either way, Aziraphale was standing there, looking both miserable and elated, somehow, and Crowley laughed gently through his nose.

"A broker? Sounds like I saved you from a boring date talking about spreadsheets and figures," he said and handed Aziraphale the bottle again, beaming once more. "Let's get something from up the road and talk about figures. I absolutely do not mean anything involving maths because I refuse to add numbers after 3 pm."

Aziraphale beamed back, taking the bottle but not sipping just yet.

"That is a splendid idea my friend. One could almost say I ditched a date for a date, huh?"

It was only a joke. Obviously. As if someone like Anthony Crowley would consider a stuffy and overly plush conservator in a bowtie a date. At least he was considered a friend. One he wished to taste instead of this sparkling wine.

Now where did those thoughts come from? Those were reserved for shameful moments in private! Seemed like he had left his standards at home today.

"So, chop chop! I'm actually starving, and I think, some meal will help with that." he shook the bottle. "And what figures, oh great artist, you want to talk about?"

Anthony followed after Aziraphale again with the bottle, back out to the gallery to fetch his pocketbook and shoes before they headed out to grab something they might both enjoy for an early supper. He glanced over at the pieces hanging on the wall and pointed. "That horse and his glorious ass."

After shortly convincing Aziraphale to put the wine bottle down just anywhere and for Anthony to not drive the short block to fetch food at the little local grocer, they were out on the street together, laughing at something Aziraphale had said. Really, he could say just about anything and Anthony could find it funny or amusing and he nearly forgot his feet, almost tripping and righting himself too fast. He wasn't drunk. He was buzzed, a little, but it was perhaps the creeping thrill that this was, in very fragile terms that they both did their best to pretend was not, a date.

Could even be a friend date, hell, Anthony wasn't that picky.

But for those keeping score, of which neither of them were doing, Aziraphale had shared a thought about the way good old Michelangelo had depicted most women without ever having seen them with his own eyes. Something along these lines at least, but Aziraphale was not even paying much attention to himself as he was the man beside him.

It wasn't the drink that was bubbling up oh so pleasantly in his chest. He really enjoyed this, Anthony's company and the slight dizzy feeling from the wine. The thrill of being caught up between true criminals and Interpol only added to that, in a horribly double-edged fashion. Fear and trepidation tripped along behind the thrill, but the sunlight made it more bearable. Anthony’s smile made it more bearable. In their way, Aziraphale almost bounced shoulders with that lanky and attractive assemble of limbs, like they were some university students on their way back from a party.

"D'you like eggplant?" Anthony called out as they stepped inside the grocery and headed straight for the short aisle of vegetables.

Aziraphale had just dreamily smiled in Anthony’s direction, occupied with thoughts of their amicable comradery as he was addressed.

"Mh? Oh, if I like eggplant? Well, of course I do, I thought that's obvious," he said with a low chuckle. Yep. His standards had been left at home most certainly. What in the name of whoever in charge was wrong with him today?

The way Aziraphale bumped in, Anthony had a brief thought that the poor man was having an allergic reaction to the sparkling wine. They hadn't had that much. But he wasn't scratching or anything and, honestly, just looked like he was enjoying himself. So, he slung his arm genially around Aziraphale and looked down at the paltry selection before them.

"Obvious as lead paint, my dear," Anthony teased, pressing the tip of his tongue to his upper lip in concentration before he leaned forward and snatched up one of the eggplants, turning it in his hand, and thumbing across the bottom. "That'll do. Right, noodles. Oil. Maybe some...come along." He tugged on Aziraphale's arm again, away from the vegetables, and continued with their brief shopping excursion.

That motion left Aziraphale coughing for a second. It surely had not been one on purpose. No, no, Anthony seemed to be completely preoccupied with their meal. So, the conservator brushed it off as just him being too enthusiastic on certain matters. Certain matters being food. Really, that rush of adrenaline just an hour or so back was doing funny things to him.

He didn’t mind their joined arms. Actually, it was a really nice feeling. He let himself get tugged along, following willingly.

“You’ll be cooking for us tonight?” Aziraphale’s voice needed a tweak, because it was too close to squeaking. “I honestly didn’t even consider that you’re capable of that, dear.”

"It's only because take out is convenient and I was very lazy." Anthony laughed, not at all surprised Aziraphale's assumption of him, and picked up more items on their way through, which included a stop through the more ample liquor section. "But, yes. I can cook. Believe it or not."

Despite the fact that he had wanted to hurl himself out of the upper story window not too long ago and pray that Eosphoros didn't, say, get a hold of his body or something with hopes of shipping it off to a necromancer, this evening was turning out to be an unexpected delight. A quick meal, some wine, and easy conversation with Aziraphale already warmed him and he could not keep a genuine smile off his lips through their journey through the store. Nor when he paid for their items and demanded the young man card them across the counter just because, flustering him as much as he dared, all of it in good fun.

"Rank your greats," Anthony said casually after they were back in the gallery and he had even fetched a half apron out of a drawer, red strings tied twice around his hips. He pointed with an oil-slick spatula, turning about to face Aziraphale, whom he had left to nibble on cheese and crackers at the table. He didn't even really clarify what greats, just tossed the idea out at him, patiently waiting to see what Aziraphale might toss back.

Watching Anthony in his get up, whirling around the kitchen like he'd never done another thing in his life left Aziraphale quite gobsmacked. If he painted like he cooked... oh no, better not dwell on that thought.

"That's an almost impossible task!" he exclaimed with an accusatory cracker pointed the cook's way. He started to think about it either way.

“Sisyphean it is not,” Anthony returned, which earned a look of gentle disapproval and adorably pursed lips.

"Fine. Let's see.... Sappho and Shakespeare, can't choose between them. Châteauneuf du Pape. My god...the artists are a real challenge here. Let me get to them later. Ah, cocoa on a cold and crisp winter morning. Houdini. Aaaand...I think...Michelangelo."

He looked expectantly at Anthony, one eyebrow cocked, challenging. Anthony spun around slowly, nodding in appreciation, while the pan sizzled behind him.

"Mm. Agreed. Agreed," he answered. "Both great poets in their own right. I'd kill to meet Shakespeare, but then I might just recite back to him and wouldn't that be annoying." He chuckled and nodded again. "Good choice. Expensive choice." He rolled his eyes playfully, shaking his head, and fixed his spectacles. "I prefer tea, but, hey, we don't have to fight to the death over that." And then he came over and braced his hands on the table. "And fucking Michelangelo? Really? Get up, now we're fighting."

He smiled, a little too hard at the edges, bubbling with a manic energy, but all too happy to tease Aziraphale openly now. Aziraphale gave him a slow once-over and raised both his eyebrows slowly. Instead of standing up, he leaned back and folded his hands neatly on the table.

"Whatever is wrong with Michelangelo Buonarroti? A genius and master of his craft. Exceptionally talented and determined at such a young age. Even a poet in his free time."

"Oh, no, he's fantastic. Fantastic. La Pieta? Great. I'm a super huge fan of his buff ladies and snake dicks. That sounds like I'm not a fan," Anthony added quietly to himself and smoothed his hand down his apron, laughing. "I am. He was a bastard. Props to him. But your greatest? Really? Greatest? Oh, Angel, have some taste."

Anthony licked his lips and was about to come closer, start a debate, when he recognized the pan behind him was really taking off and it might burn. He turned away quickly and started scraping the spatula against the bottom, flipping their stir fry.

"Snake dicks? Please, Anthony, where in the name of the Lord have you seen snake genitals on one of his works? David does not look like he's sporting some hemipenes. And I said it's tough! You made it tough! But he's very high up on my list. What is your choice then, oh great artist?" He had to compensate the short sprout of excitement as Anthony leaned closer, before he rushed back to save their dinner. "If you're about to start in with da Vinci..."

"What? You want to talk genius?" Anthony glanced over his shoulder and peered over the top of his glasses, showing off pale eyes, his eyebrows dancing upwards in amusement before he looked away again. "I almost got my hands on the sister piece to the Mona Lisa for a second. Obviously, it should be in a museum, but it was trading around back in the 90s, you remember? Beautiful....."

He even had a sketch based off it that he had hanging up in his flat above them, framed and everything. He was quite proud of it, even if he showed it off to exactly no one. There was a small rule that whomever he picked up online didn't get to sleep in his bed or his gallery. But still. That drawing? Perhaps one of his favorite pieces. Hence framed.

The conservator's eyes lit visibly and now he actually stood, coming closer with intent to help. That, or remain in Anthony’s orbit, which he greatly enjoyed.

"Dear Lord, you did? Oh, what I would give to come near it..." he pressed his fist to his lips to compose himself for a moment. They were still in an argument here. "Right. Da Vinci was a genius, no doubt. But he was not able to focus! Sloppy work ethics and he bullied Michelangelo only because he was young and almost as talented as him, in regards of sculpting and the like. I still suspect they had a strange thing going on. Rival attraction, you could say."

"What's it...uh...." Anthony grinned at himself and waved his spatula again as he lifted the pan off the fire, shaking it out a little. "Enemies to lovers. That's what you're saying, huh?"

The pasta was drained and shifted to a pot with a cup of the boiled water to sit in and wait as Anthony shook the pan again and flipped the vegetables in the air, catching them, and set the pan aside. He grabbed out plain dishes and started to plate them, glancing over his shoulder.

"Get comfy. And open another bottle for dinner. And we'll continue this debate, Angel, I promise." There was that mischievous glint again, that unfettered delight at their evening unfolding as such.

He hadn't to be that told twice. Aziraphale choose a nice sounding red, fetching some glasses and the cutlery to set them on the table. He poured them some wine and waited patiently for the home cooked pasta a la Anthony. It already smelled utterly delicious.

And as expected, it was. The sounds the conservator made were full of appreciation and the typical little moans.

"Dear boy, how could you keep this secret from me for so long? Really...now you've made the big mistake of letting me know you cook and I will demand another demonstration of your skills." He grinned at him over the rim of his glass that he had just picked up. He took a sophisticated sip - no need for gulping now - and set it down again, his fingers playing with the glass stem. "But I think we still have an "argument" to settle? Or theories to discuss?"

"We do," Anthony answered, stabbing a bite off his plate. "But first, have it be known, I cannot bake. So, desserts not on me."

“Oh, a shame,” Aziraphale pouted. “Maybe I can help out with that. I might not be too well versed in the art of patisserie, but I heard that my baking skills are adequate.”

He laughed easily, perhaps a little forced just to keep from getting swept up in Aziraphale's open pleasure at food. Anthony’s laugh was infectious and Aziraphale joined, propping his head on one hand. One couldn't even say if it was just good food, because it was a devilishly simple dish and Anthony thought Aziraphale might be lying about how much he enjoyed himself. Except that Anthony could not see Aziraphale lying about food. Outings with rogue art dealers? To get out of a date? Sure. But something as important as food?

Well, it was high praise.

"Right. Right, argument. Something about...right! Sloppy work! My friend, have you never met someone with ADHD?" He licked something out of his gums, chuckling, and took another sip, trying not to linger on Aziraphale's hand dragging up his stem.

“I must have, but it’s just…well…. As a conservator, you have to be highly focused on one particular aspect or task for a long period of time. I guess it’s just not my kind of thinking and working at all. But I get you, he was a great mind and both of them were known to not be the easiest fellows. Ironically, they had quite much in common.”

“I’m not going to debate what is ADHD and what is not,” Anthony answered, pointing with his fork. “But it’s on the list.”

“Is it?”

“You just opened it up to be, yes.” Anthony took a bite and hummed behind his fork, shaking his head to clear away the path they might fall down. "Mm. But you submit, genius work! And he had his own issues over in Italy, I'm sure. Maybe they were both bastards. Leo and Michael, ey?”

“Despite their skill, both of them were revolting in their own way against the dogmas of the church, venturing into sciences. It’s speculated that Michelangelo was part of the Illuminati at one point.” Aziraphale chuckled, taking another sip. “He at least believed in the theory of Jesus and Mary Magdalene being a couple. There are quite some hints, that the Pieta is an actual depiction of the two lovers, not mother and son.”

“I just...I love his mind," Anthony added dreamily.

“And don’t mind his work ethic?”

“Not at all.”

“I suppose if we covered Michaelango’s. It was impressive, but….”

Aziraphale stopped his rambling and watched the wine swish around in his glass, as he was slowly twisting it between his fingers.

“You must know all this already. I’m afraid I might be boring you. Hah...I remember how things like that would dive my old boss up the walls...”

Aziraphale sighed and stopped fidgeting with his glass.

"Fuck 'im," Anthony answered simply, a little wave of his hand. "That's the whole point of this. I started it.”

He leaned forward again, like he was about to casually take Aziraphale's hand, and stopped himself at the last moment. 

"It's just a fun argument, Angel," said Anthony a little quieter, smiling a little softer. "If it isn't fun, then we change subjects. Simple as that. But, I mean, I think it's fun."

While his eyes had been cast down in temporary shame, Aziraphale now was fixed on the long fingers that splayed on the table before him. They really were elegant. Aziraphale asked himself, not for the first time, how they might work when holding a brush, or brushed over skin or....no no _no_.

He looked up, smiling coyly.

“I enjoy this very much myself. I like working alone, but it had been some time since I could talk about art like this with somebody. And even back when I was under a proper museum? Not at all an entirely talkative group, most of the time. So...is there anything else you have to add to your love for da Vinci? Any wild theories you’d like to share on this or another matter, my friend?”

Just the consideration from the other, that softening in tone and expression, warmed the conservator up from the inside out. There was yet not enough time between the moment they had met, wishing murder upon Anthony, and the present. Now, life without him looked like a somber and dreadful notion. If Leonardo and Michelangelo would have ever taken the time to get to know the other better, would they have also become friends instead of such rivals? Aziraphale still liked the idea of them being some kind of lovers. He would never admit that he got that from a very cringey little cheap pulp fiction. All in good fun, that’s all.

Still….

"Oh, my dear companion," Anthony said a bit haughtily, clearly back into the role of devil's advocate. He liked to tease Aziraphale only when he knew Aziraphale was playing in the same space. It was much less fun when it was mean spirited anymore. "You give any da Vinci theorist a mystery and a bit of wiggle room...? I mean, have you heard the one about his supposed remains?"

Anthony got comfortable again, smiling easily, waving his hands here and there as he spouted a few rhetorics on the theories of mystical cabals, on secret messages for some dire world-controlling schemes, and the tales of his life and romances and learnings as far as they could guess in general academic circles.

This was the most delightful evening Aziraphale had in years. Good food, lively debates about art and history and even better company to do this with. He listened before chiming in with theories that he had heard, or comments on several topics. It was so utterly refreshing to get so passionate about these things together. Sure, Aziraphale’s partners in the past hadn't been some brainless monkeys who just looked good. He was drawn to a certain kind of education and all that, but he had never met someone so tremendously different and similar at the same time.

"And, I mean, he was still prolific,” Anthony continued. “Maybe he didn't finish so many paintings, but there's a collection of 500 drawings alone over with the Royal Collection. Like I said." He jabbed slightly, tilting forward too fast and nearly spilling his half-empty cup. "Prolific, my Angel. Talented bastard. Oop."

He sat back and brushed the fresh stained down the front of his shirt, giggling at himself.

"I have to say, I love is drawings and sketches. Their full of movement and action. Still, sloppy work ethics. And see what he did with that experimental colours for the last supper. I would not be surprised if he made that, just to annoy some people in the future. "

He took a swig of his own glass again (maybe the second? The third?) before snorting in it, seeing that dark spot on the already very dark shirt of his friend.

"Good Lord, look at the state of you. Here, let me help a little... "

Aziraphale took a napkin and leaned over the table, softly dabbing at the spot. He didn't even think much about it.

"You know, I was able to look at them from up close. The drawings, I mean. Back when they came through. I was working…ah. There, looking a little better already."

"Oh?" Aziraphale's hand was on his chest and, oddly enough, Anthony was not going into full panic mode. "You have a hand in restoring any of them?"

"Oh no, I would have already bragged about that for sure. I had restored another piece and brought it back. They just so happen to be out around their workshop. It was marvelous."

Before Aziraphale could pull back, Anthony instinctively reached up and wrapped his long fingers around the conservator's wrist, holding him there for a moment more, and looking up at his stormy eyes. He smiled, studying Aziraphale's wonderfully soft face, the smile lines, the little delightful wrinkles, and the little tip of his nose. He had a thin, pointed cupid's bow for lips that looked pouty and pretty.

It was one of those 'and time was slowing down around them' moments. Aziraphale could feel the soft press of the fingers, cool against his delicate skin. And then he was studied by those shielded eyes. He could feel it, and it made a blush dust over the bridge of his skyward nose.

Too much wine. Yeah. Considering your friend's lips with too much earnest? Definitely too much wine. Anthony let go of Aziraphale's wrist and looked quickly down at his shirt.

"Think you saved it," he said and laughed, standing up and snagging up the plates to go wash them. "And so glad you liked my cooking, Angel." He grinned from the safety of the sink, holding the plates up, and started the water to wash them before the food had time to dry and stick and become a proper mess.

The spell was completely broken when Anthony got up for the washing, but Aziraphale could still feel his heart gently thrumming against his ribcage.

"Let me lend you a hand. I can at least dry them off. "

Aziraphale came over and snatching a towel. Before getting to work however, he started to open his cufflinks, so his sleeves could get out of the way, rolling them up with quick efficiency.

Anthony glanced over, motioning with his elbow that he could dry from there, and stared a little too long at Aziraphale's naked wrists. There they were. He'd even touched one. And that's all it was. A few inches above the hand, going up to his elbow. Bare, with fine white hair atop it, sturdy, thick. Anthony swallowed and quickly yanked his hand back when the water was finally too hot, steaming over the tiny pile of dishes. He was, if anything, fastidious about his dishware.

"Right." Anthony nodded and focused on the sponge and plate in hand while the pan soaked below them. "Thank you."

And after that brief hiccup, it was actually pretty easy just to stand next to Aziraphale. They continued their gentle debate, teasing each other, as Anthony scrubbed and handed the dish to Aziraphale, who buffed them dry and set them on a mat waiting neatly for the rest of the dishes.

"Thank you," he suddenly said into the brief silence that had been going on for a while. "For... somehow turning the fear of getting roughed up by Mafia into a wonderful evening." He turned his head to smile at the other. It was earnest and open. "And to just push that horrible doom back again, like a proper brit, you want to know why I left my job at the National Gallery?"

Anthony was startled into a short laugh, tucking his chin down.

"Quite right," he muttered, and had to use the back of his wet hand to push his glasses back up into place before he handed over the silverware, one piece at a time. "Er, I mean, yeah. If you're telling. I'd love to know why."

"I was tired of getting yelled at from my superior. But the real reason was that I previously had an... an affair. With him."

The conservator let that information sit for a moment, while he concentrated on polishing that fork in his hand. Ah yes, now it was shiny enough. He held it into the light, watching his reflection and not at all trying to catch Crowley’s reflection in the warped convex of tines. Yes, quite perfect. Gleaming. Not a speck or scratch on the fork at all.

Anthony immediately invaded and grabbed the fork, setting it down.

"You can't just tell me that and not tell me everything," he said, his smile wide and impish. "What did you do? How did it start? Was he with someone else? Were you? Was that why he was an unbelievable bastard to you?"

True, Anthony had limited knowledge on how much of a bastard this superior was, but he could hazard a guess. And now, stymied as a jilted ex-lover? Fascinating little man, this Aziraphale. He wanted to read his life like a book.

No, that would take too long.

He wanted to listen to the book on tape by Aziraphale. That's more like it.

It was hard to repress the laughter that was threatening to spill out but the effort to do so was already destroying his smug expression anyways.

“Alright, alright, I won’t be a tease. It’s been...what? Almost ten years now? You know, it started like it mostly does, with some comments and glances. Lingering behind me and commenting on some things that weren’t actually there on the canvas, just to get closer. Things like that. I guess my preferences are hovering over me like a neon sign, but I did not think that he would be interested in me. He apparently was and it was all oh so thrilling, because he was my boss and we shouldn’t...all of that. The poor broom closet was misused many times.”

He sighed wistfully and grabbed his glass, drinking the rest of the remaining wine, and then handing it over to Anthony, who held his hand out to take it and wash it.

“We never met at his place, and I should have been startled by that immediately. But I wasn’t, naive as I was. Well...turned out that he was engaged. To a beautiful young lady. A _pianist,_ can you believe? And she was expecting apparently. That’s why he ended it. And you know what? If she wouldn’t have become pregnant, he would have just gone on with that. I know he would. She as in Paris most of the time, so he was screwing around with me. Well, either way... I was professional about that and mostly ignored him at work, but it seems that my mere presence reminded him of that closet too much, if you catch my meaning, and he started snapping at me for every little reason. So, I decided to go. I was one of their best conservators, but I always wanted to work on my own anyhow.”

Azirpahale folded and refolded the towel, his chin trembling a bit with that hurt laughter.

“Scandalous, isn’t it? Didn’t have a real relationship ever since.”

"Not since? It's been ten years," Anthony answered and realized that was not the right thing to say. He shook his head quickly. "I mean, he's a douche. Like a colossal...a gargantuan...King Douche. Power play right there, and not even the fun kind!" Anthony pursed his lips. "So, first off, fuck him. With a kid on the way? You can't...not with kids. Hard pass.

"Second," Anthony drawled, and slapped the wet rag he had been using to occasionally wipe down the counter up onto his shoulder, smoothing it down flat against his chest, "what's his name and home address? Because I know some people. You've met them, actually, and they do marvelous things with a crowbar."

Aziraphale snorted and almost bent over, laughing, slapping Anthony's shoulder playfully.

"That's so sweet of you, but the last thing I heard about him was that his wife cheated on him with a famous conductor. Karma caught up to him, I guess."

He turned around to lean against the countertop, folding his still bare forearms.

"I'm spilling a lot of personal information here and I have to inform you that that's not the usual case for me. Under normal circumstances, it might take months and years to get so much. Whatever this witchcraft is your using to get this out of me, it's working, Anthony." Aziraphale smiled and turned towards Anthony, pressing his pointer finger into Anthony’s chest. "While _you_ , my dear, are not giving me much. I guess that's part of your charm offensive, yes? Bold, flashy and a mysterious air around you, mhh?"

They had had too much wine. Aziraphale had to be cautious, otherwise he would get flirty and that was something both of them definitely didn't want to bear with. The embarrassment... Oh no. Just keep it at a friendly quip, nothing more.

Anthony had to laugh. He was physically required to, or he would do something stupid and bold and not at all the apparently unaffected and mysterious creature Aziraphale pegged him as. So, he laughed, and held onto Aziraphale's wrist, now there was that pointer finger tapping Anthony's chest.

"I'm just boring, I guess," Anthony answered after a beat, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand just a little, barely an invite to stay, and then released him again. "I didn't sleep with my boss," he added and shrugged. "So, you've got that one above me. Not that I haven't had my own trysts here and there, but they don't sleep over. And, look, no wife. So, I think I'm just bad at, uh, keeping company."

Yuck, that was perfectly honest and not even tampered down with anything.

"I think I scare people off when I offer to cook for them. Must be the outfit. Does this not scream chef to you? Or does everyone think I'll poison them with paint?"

"How are you boring? You're one of the most interesting and delightful people I have met in a long time! And as soon as you allow someone to get a little closer, you're not even that pretentious."

Aziraphale was almost puffing up, like an aggravated pigeon or something. He splayed his hand on the flat chest now, giving him a little push. My, that felt nice. Maybe a little shapely even.

"The loss is on them. But you did mention that you sometimes use poisonous paints, so people might be on to something," he said with an affectionate smile.

Oh damn, Anthony had really grown on him, hadn't he? The whole situation, the comfort and familiarity of it, plus the influence of the wine was loosening Aziraphale’s tongue even more and shortly after he had said what was just coming to mind, he wished he had just bit it.

"I must confess, Anthony, I thought you were one of those artists that seduce their muses. Painting a beautiful young thing and then things get a little more handsy and all."

Aziraphale was going to pull that hand away, right?

 _Right_?

Anthony pressed a little closer, struggling to keep his heart from racing too quickly, and covered Aziraphale's hand on his chest. How dare he say such nice things about Anthony! How dare he stick up for his honor or something.

"I've never had the chance to get as close to a true muse as this," Anthony said softly, looking down at Aziraphale, at his very neatly trimmed nails, the little glint of a ring, the swell of his chest and stomach against the fabric. He wanted to press against all of it and Aziraphale had already made the first move. If anything, he was just finally stepping up to plate. Anyways, they could chalk it all up to drinking if it got out of hand.

Instead, he wanted something else in hand. Anthony reached up and carefully brushed his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, like he was removing lint, and even fiddled his fingers together to keep up the ruse.

The whole atmosphere changed to something more charged. It was still tender and soft but undoubtedly underlined with that kind of tension, so familiar to when his former superior at the National Gallery had leaned in over his shoulder with the pure purpose of being close. His heart rate peaked, and he couldn't help but blush at being called a muse to Anthony. He looked up into dark lenses, lips slightly parted as the elegant fingers brushed his hair. If he just leaned in, a little closer....

Aziraphale's body was already moving, just mere millimeters at a time when both of their phones chimed simultaneously. The conservator flinched visibly and drew his hand, still pressed against that wonderful warm and flat chest, back like he had burned himself. He felt dizzy as he got his phone out of his pocket, only _almost_ dropping it once.

"It's from Mr. Gabriel."

Aziraphale felt his cheeks heating up with anger. Anthony deflated pretty much as soon as Aziraphale's hand was gone. He was so keen on getting closer that he had been holding still, solid, barely breathing, and then the spell was broken, and he practically collapsed in on himself like a dying star. Much less dramatic. In all actuality he just slumped against the counter and got out his phone.

"He sounds pissed. Can he sound pissed in a text?" It was a weak excuse to play off a joke then, to get them both settled back into their roles as friends and all that. "Demanding deadlines at this hour, really? You think he needs a good shag or...er...." Anthony cleared his throat and turned more on his hip, slightly leaning away from Aziraphale. "I mean. What should we tell him? Checked 'em over. All fakes. Definitely don’t mention the real Rubens?"

The mention of the real Rubens helped dampen the immense frustration and desire that was still stirring in Aziraphale’s guts. But he could still feel the warmth of Anthony's hand against his, the tingle on his scalp....

"If we say they're all fakes, they're going to destroy the Aurora! No, no. I'll tell him that I'm not through with all of them yet and...and maybe you can tell him there are some receipts missing? We'll get to him tomorrow? It’s—good lord!”

Aziraphale checked the time when he started to type his reply.

“It’s almost midnight!”

“No it…shit. When did it get so late?”

“Why’s he texting _now_?”

Inspector Gabriel was texting nearly at midnight because he was a monster, that’s what. Who didn’t know how to sleep and had no distractions. And now Mr. Crowley and Fell had to suffer for it. But that was neither here nor there.

Still, given the time, Aziraphale shot back a short reply and put his phone away to avoid any inquiries or accusations of being up so late from an American hypocrite. There was no way that they could get back to what was happening just moments ago. Not without talking about it. No one wanted to do that.

Instead, Aziraphale cleared his throat and avoided Anthony's gaze.

"I think I should get a wiggle on and head back home. We’ll get up and ready tomorrow to get out of this...this. This mess. Somehow."

Curiosity and shades be damned, but he glanced up at his friend nonetheless, still blushing in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Really, Anthony was the lucky one, with the sunglasses. Or maybe it made Aziraphale the lucky one because he couldn't see Anthony's painfully earnest stare.

"Probably right." Anthony gripped his phone tightly behind his back, having to swallow twice to find the rest of his voice. "You need me to call you cab?"

And that was that. They'd stepped too close to the sun, as it were, and burned their wings. Well, no, he had said they could chalk it up to the wine. He had said it in his mind, but it still stood firm and true. He wasn't going to let this affect how their friendship progressed.

"Unless you wanted to stay?" he added quietly, not even hopeful, just extending the offer.

Was that regret? Maybe it was just his own wishful thinking even though the offer was so very tempting. But it would only end in a disaster for sure if he did.

"Better not. I think I'll take the cab, thank you."

He stepped around Anthony, making his way to the kitchen's door when he stopped and added, "Maybe another time. We could have another nice dinner beforehand. Dine at the Ritz, perhaps...."

They said their goodbye at the door, Aziraphale pleading that Anthony would cover up the paintings and lock everything properly. For the sake of his own safety and the paintings.

As he was finally home, door closed behind him, Aziraphale shrugged out of his coat with a cry of frustration, tossing it over his rack and making his way up to the flat. His pace was frantic, and he clawed at his bowtie, tugging it open in frustration. He shed his waistcoat, unbuttoned only half of his shirt and yanked the bracers off his shoulders before he let himself fall into his bed, back first, roughly opening the buttons of his slacks before he was able to take himself in hand with an overly frustrated grunt.

It wasn't a very satisfying wank. Images of what could have happen crossed his mind, making the blonde man mourn the loss of opportunity even more. Just the thought of those long fingers, stroking him and...

Aziraphale came. Quite hard but still unsatisfied. He had tossed one arm over his eyes and panted, waiting for the exhaustion to kick in.

"Sod it..."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updates. Last week was a long weekend and this week has some wonky work schedule things. But we'll get back to it soon enough! Still plenty to go in editing the doc, but, hey, this is a reminder that the story itself is finished. So this won't get abandoned!

After everything was locked up and Anthony was certain Aziraphale was home and in bed, after the bottles were corked, the lights turned off, and he had retreated back upstairs to his proper place in his flat, Anthony stepped barefoot through his halls and went to his private studio. He flicked a switch beside him and kept his head down until fluorescents had a chance to flicker and warm up. The whole room smelled like linseed oil and paint, thick, not quite sweet but not far from that spectrum. There were flecks of rogue colors on the cement floor, more in big swatches of aquamarine and canary yellows standing out amongst hundreds of browns and reds and dull greens near a set of easels. Those lights overhead, the banks of them, hummed appreciatively, building the background noise as Crowley stepped sluggishly to the main easel propped up across the room, standing up a huge, nearly life-sized canvas on the stretchers.

"You idiot," he muttered up at the thing, hands on his hips in defiance of feeling miserable for himself. Though, surely he did. He sniffed, agitated, and his eyes roamed over the background building up under the master's guidance, which was displayed in one of the museum catalogues nearby. "Mind the strokes," he muttered and snorted at his knock off Rubens replication. Could go for a stroke himself, couldn't he?

Not really.

Crowley rubbed his face as he picked up his headphones and slipped them on, starting up a tape - and of course a tape, he was that sort've aesthetic pretentious ass - and fished out a few brushes.

He'd waste a few hours working to settle his nerves and then it was off to bed, the night long gone but the embarrassment of the almost-something with Aziraphale fading to a nice little anguished groan at the back of his mind by the time his head finally hit the pillow.

-♦-

The next day came crawling in and Aziraphale felt like he should be grey and made of cement. There were prominent bruises under both eyes. This wasn’t a hangover. This was misery incarnate from the feelings he had cultivated in the forbidden garden of his mind. He found his eyes in the mirror, fixing himself with a stern look.

“Stop doing that,” he said to himself, going so far as to point. “Whatever it was, it surely is not what you think it is. There was much wine. Don’t ruin this, Aziraphale!”

The self-scolding did not bring the effect that he’d been hoping for, really. He sighed and washed his face with ice cold water in hopes this would dampen his overly futile sparks of hope. His friendship with Anthony was a good one. The best he’d had since he and Tracy became friends! He would not risk that for a night of passion, just because Anthony was good looking. And kind. And talented. And surely a very sensual....

“ _Please_ ,” he whined.

Today was important. They’d need all their wits to get through their inevitable reunion with Eosphoros’ lackies. And while sleep had been miserable, it wasn’t an excuse to calling out sick and hiding away in his flat until he stopped reaming of Anthony’s eyes and fingers. Such elegant fingers….

Another pathetic little groan as Aziraphale grabbed his toothbrush and got himself ready. He’d text and see how Anthony was getting along before he headed over. The message was edited over three times. Four times. Too formal and then too informal and each letter carried the beat of his aching heart. With a shaky conscious, Aziraphale finally hit send.

And how was Anthony getting along?

"Stop. Staying. Up. Past. 3." Crowley glared at himself in the mirror, his eyes sporting a healthy bruised color. Why did he get up this early?

No, right. Text from Aziraphale. And another snarky demand from Jon "Please Fuck Off" Gabriel.

He lifted the screen up again to read the messages.

 **Sender:**[jgabrie244@iad.eu](mailto:jgabrie244@iad.eu): Send your reports. This is IMPERATIVE. Timeline crunch with new da…(Sent 22:29)

 **Aziraphale:** On my way! Will be there in 20. [08:21 AM]

Crowley wondered if he should text Aziraphale to bring coffee. He had a coffee maker downstairs. But that was...downstairs. And not turned on. And the coffee was in the cabinet. Impossible task. But texting Aziraphale to ask for something?

Also impossible.

He didn't even shave as he left his bathroom to get ready for a day of art appreciation and shifting a paper trail and lying to Aziraphale about trying to find the mysterious sexy forger he wanted. Great!

And, of course, 08:41. It was right on the clock, as always, as Aziraphale stood on the threshold to Anthony's gallery. His hand hovered over the bell, shivering with taught nerves. He wet his lips twice and reminded himself he could do this. He could! It was imperative. He was a good man. This was ridiculous! He could do this!

He was going to be sick.

No, he wasn’t.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and pressed. Everything would be fine. Alright. No need to wo—

And the door snapped open uncharacteristically fast, with Anthony presented just…like… _that._ He was lacking sleep, certainly, but that slight stubble on his sharp features was strangely attractive. Oh good _Lord._ This was not helping.

Aziraphale must have stared for some time, though truly it was the both of them staring and saying a whole lot of nothing. Aziraphale took it upon himself to blink and clear his throat to clear away the offending silence.

"What has happened to you, dear boy?"

"And hello to you too." Anthony stepped out of the doorway, carding back his hair until he had it all scooped up and quickly tied it up and out of the way. "You've had breakfast? I haven't. Didn't sleep much. Lotta work to be done."

He had turned his back on Aziraphale now that they were inside and waved him on to follow, definitely not avoiding eye contact at all and definitely not blushing at all at all or needing a moment by the sink to compose himself as he filled the carafe with water to start a pot of coffee because he was completely prepared to see Aziraphale and not at all at all _at all_ sidelined by the fact that Aziraphale looked so cute and frazzled. One can consider their friends to be cute and frazzled, of course they can! Just...not with the expectation to make amends for last night, grab him by the face, and kiss the daylights out of him. Because...that's not what...friends do?

Society standards were shit.

Crowley scowled and then laughed at himself, temporarily so lost in his thoughts that he overfilled the carafe and cursed himself, holding it up with water up to the brim.

"Just a second. Let me go water some plants. Might as well not, y'know, waste it all."

He shuffled out of the tiny kitchen to go to his garden and left Aziraphale to fend for himself for a bit.

Curse this man's talent of looking endearing, even when a mess! Aziraphale bit his lip as he followed the slender figure before him. Such a swagger should be illegal! It only accentuated the narrow hips and that cute little and very taught bum.

Aziraphale tried to think of Jon Gabriel dancing in a sparkling tutu. Yes, that helped for the moment. Did the trick, as it were.

"I do apologize. If I came over too soon…I ate 2 hours ago.”

“2? You must be hungry.”

“Sorry? Oh.” Aziraphale laughed. “Well, at the very least, if I had known I could have brought you something from that darling little bakery down the street."

Crowley simply gestured not to worry about it, to get comfortable, to wait. So, Aziraphale, mid-babble, crossed his hands together and took a deep breath, trying to think straight as Anthony tended his garden. Well. As straight as possible, of course. That thought alone amused him and he occupied his own time getting some water to boil on Anthony’s stove top, looking through the cupboards that were now becoming too familiar to him. He found dried fruit and started to prepare a porridge for his weathered friend. He wished to follow, of course, but it seemed Anthony wanted privacy in his garden.

It's not like he had to worry about slugs in the garden. The windows were open, but the primary light came from the lightbulbs installed and many of the plants were set up on timed misters to keep optimal conditions. Still, Anthony went through and found the huge schefflera plant, pouring water at the base.

"You're looking a little yellow," he said casually to the plant, touching one of the leaves, and then suddenly grabbed the branch like he would some bastard's wrist, threatening to snap it. "Get your shit in order or you'll be out like that reynoldsia cousin we took care of last Tuesday. You got it?"

And Anthony pressed his thumb, like he was going to snap the branch off, similar to how one might break a finger when terrorizing subordinates in some awful greenery mafia. He could sheer off a group of leaves like taking a pinky. There's a group that did that, weren't there? Over in Japan? Not that he needed ideas on how to threaten his plants. And, if it knew what was good for it, that yellow spot would disappear by tomorrow. Not at all because he would adjust the fertilizer and turned the plant to even out its exposure to the lights. Nope. Not that at all.

When Anthony ambled back towards his kitchen, he was surprised to smell something cooking and wondered briefly if he was having a stroke. But, lo, he was just having an Aziraphale over, who looked like he was busying himself.

"Looks like you found the oats." Anthony grinned and raised a half-empty carafe up. "Coffee will be ready in a few minutes, if you want any?"

"And looks like you are back from a little talk with your plants. Never thought you were that type who did that.”

Anthony’s face went dark at the discovery Aziraphale had heard him. How much, he wondered? He did his best not to look back towards his plants, to guess how far it was, to guess how muffled it all could have been. He hadn’t been shouting today, had he?

“Are you letting them listen to classical music as well?"

“Ngh, classical…music?”

Aziraphale had read about that once. He had read about quite a few things that he would never approach himself, but that didn't hinder him procuring said knowledge. Some might have a mind palace. Aziraphale owned the library of Alexandria in there.

"Well. Coffee would be lovely, dear. And you should get something in that," _wonderful flat, certainly slightly muscular,_ "belly of yours. You need your energy, since we have to report back to Mr. Gabriel as soon as possible."

Aziraphale should kick himself for that mental slip. There was no time to ponder over the state of his friends appealing figure. He should kick himself again when his eyes wandered down Anthony’s body once more, catching a look when he was turned away to deal with the coffee.

"Ah, yes, thank you, mother," Anthony said dryly. though he didn't hide his smile over Aziraphale's concerns. Indeed, yes, work to be done. "Next time I'll make you a turkish coffee for the trouble."

And, finally, they seemed to settle into a strange little routine, working around each other easily in the kitchen. He traded dishes with his friend, holding out coffee and taking the bowl of porridge, their fingers touching briefly. He didn't flinch, but his face darkened briefly, and he sat at the table, inviting Aziraphale to join him.

"What did you send to Gabriel? He was still texting he wanted something. So annoying. He—"

Anthony took a moment to eat and paused, humming. It was sweet, cut with an edge of tartness from the fruit, and smooth. Surprisingly very smooth. He moaned, not nearly as theatrical as Aziraphale, and smiled, forgetting the rest of his sentence.

Aziraphale smiled curled impishly at the corners. Truly the epitome of one satisfied cat, this one. He wiggled a little in his seat and took a sip of his coffee before answering.

"I don't know, to be frank. I sent him all we knew. Well, except, you know….” Anthony nodded, understanding him. “I told him that we'll inform this...Prince person today and that matters are in their hands after it." Another sip, and a wide smile. "You're enjoying your breakfast, dear boy?"

"Ngh. Er...." Anthony swallowed hard, trying not to be embarrassed about enjoying a good meal. It was a simple meal. Nothing wrong with enjoying it. "I, we- I, uh...yeah."

Curse his rubber tongue getting in the way of everything! He wiped his mouth with the end of his thumb and licked it clean.

"Yeah. Really good. Uh, d'you think we'll have to meet with Prince in person today?"

“I would guess someone like them would do better to send their men over but then again, they gave us the Aurora and if I were in their shoes, I would see to it’s safe return. Not to mention I wouldn’t have been idiotic enough to bring it here in the first place, but that’s something completely different, I think.”

Good, he had survived that little motion of hand without another silly increase of heartbeat and body temperature. Talking about those gangsters was a good damper on that. At least for now.

“Should I contact them now? The sooner they get here and take the paintings, the safer we are, I would say. I...I could try to deal with them on your behalf. Saying you’re indisposed or something.”

The conservator tipped his index finger against the mug, a question balancing on the tip of his tongue. Finally, it tumbled over that edge.

“Say...what kind of run-in did you have with Eosphoros?” Soon as it was said, Aziraphale raised his hands apologetically. “No. You don’t have to tell me, I’m sorry for asking. It’s just, you know... one starts to wonder. I do not think less of you, you know. Everyone has a past and all that...”

Anthony looked up, spoon midway between mouth and bowl again, and carefully set it down.

"I do. Sure.” Might as well…. “I mean...I was with them for a...a bit. Kinda." He rubbed his face and shook his head. "That sounds like I was 'part of the gang.' No, I just...I did some deals with Lucien. Not a lot. Before you think...I mean, Christ, he might remember my name, but it was a while ago. I sold him some stuff. Quick buck. Didn't ask a lot of questions. Worked for me...my clients. Uh, but, I mean." Anthony laughed. "I mean, I asked a ton of questions. Turns out, too many. And he had his goons send a little message that I should fuck off. So, I've really been avoiding those circles."

It was Anthony's turn to squirm. He wasn't supposed to reveal too much to Aziraphale. The minimal the better. But he wanted to share because, hell, they were kinda close. And Aziraphale made him feel comfortable enough to give details. Except that was dangerous and Anthony's mind wheeled with the worry he had overindulged in this little plaything they called friendship. Aziraphale said he wouldn't think of Anthony any less, so maybe he shouldn't worry.

He worried.

He swallowed his spoonful, unable to stomach another bite afterwards. And he worried.

It wasn't surprising somehow. Anthony did seem like someone who got in trouble without even noticing, being a little too forward, too bold....

It really didn't bother Aziraphale. Actually, it was endearing that the other opened up about it a little and that it wasn't too severe. Of course, was always the possibility of Anthony lying. Somehow, that was such a distant concern, but a small, tiny doubt was still present.

In due time. That’s all.

The change in Anthony's whole bearing was visible and Aziraphale gave him a soft smile.

"I see. Well, maybe they have forgotten about this incident. I'm very sorry that you had to experience such a thing... and like I said, I can deal with them! If I can deal with persistent old and well-off ladies, this should be no problem!" he said with a cheer and reached out to pat the hand that was not holding the spoon. It was a small gesture, a reassuring touch. But it was enough to let him linger just a second too long. Oh no...

When he recognized his mistake, Aziraphale pulled back, a blush already blooming on his cheeks. He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and looked into his mug.

"Ah...well...I guess I'll...I'll get out and call them then? You can finish up here. Yes. I'll be back in a jiffy!"

He stood up, maybe a little too fast, and staggered out in the hallway trying to get the business card out of his waistcoat pocket and call Prince.

"You don't have-oh. Okay."

My, but Aziraphale was jumpy. Maybe he was worried too? Just a little reassuring pat and he was stumbling over himself. Maybe last night couldn't be swept under the rug. Anthony was going to have to batten down the hatches, then, until all this awkwardness was behind him. He nodded to his dish and got up with purpose, put it in the sink, and quickly scrubbed everything clean.

Too bad Aziraphale wasn't there to dry everything with him again. Anthony looked over at the empty place and sighed softly to himself. No, lock that up tight. He straightened his shoulders and turned his focus back onto the sink, forcing himself to forget those fluttery feelings.

Though the call was short, it was awkward, punctuated with terse pauses. Prince said that they would be over soon enough, unable to give a guess as to how long, which seemed rude without Aziraphale commenting that it was. Aziraphale sighed in relief as he pressed the red button and came back to the kitchen, just to see Anthony standing exactly where they had been just yesterday. He gulped, but put on a smile.

"They'll be here, er, soon? Sorry, they were not very specific. Would you, um…? Care to admire the real deal a little more?"

"While we have the chance?" Anthony looked over his shoulder. He set the last dish down and wiped his hands quickly, motioning for Aziraphale to go with him back out into the gallery.

At least it was a sunny day. Not like the Crowley gallery was made up of giant glass windows, but it was a little brighter and Anthony went over towards the little set up they had, carefully unveiling the paintings once more so they could admire them, exactly as stated. He reached for a thin black remote and punched on a sound system that played low classic rock ballads in the background, just to fill the void stretching on and on inside the gallery.

“It’s a shame they’ll be destroyed.”

"Destroyed, yes.” Then Aziraphale binked, panic setting in. “Do you think that Eosphoros would destroy a real Rubens?!"

Impossible! There it was, right in front of them. Maybe in some need of some careful and tender affection from a conservator, but perfectly fine, nonetheless.

Anthony did not mean at all to upset him. He was just worried and let his mouth run off. "No no, if Eosphoros thinks it's the real deal, no way. I'm just...considering all morbid options."

Aziraphale's eyes darted to the two other paintings again and he strode over to the earlier opus of the forger. He reached out and touched it delicately.

"It's a shame that these will be destroyed though. I know it's made as a deception to fool people, but still. So much work. So much love for every little detail, including the paint. And then, the spark of their own creativity shining through..."

Anthony stayed back and watched Aziraphale admire. There was so much unabashed...dare he say _love_ in that look that it made Anthony's mouth feel dry and his chest tight. He wanted to say something, right then and there.

_Oh, don't worry, Angel, you can have any you like. I'll make you one special._

But he just folded his arms and looked down at his feet instead, absently scrubbing his jaw before tucking his limbs back together tightly.

Another wistful smile and Aziraphale turned to the more recent fake, memorizing every bit.

“It’s foolish to romanticize this, isn’t it? I’m so curious about who the person behind these paintings. Admittedly, it was the highest motivation I had to work on the case. No regards to what would happen afterwards, you know? I just…oh, I admire. Too much, I’m afraid. Not particularly removed from my feelings of these.”

He eventually was able to pry himself from the paintings. It was another hilarious notion of his, getting so involved in the making of the forgeries, even to the point where he admired their creator. Aziraphale might not say it aloud, but he mused about the look of the forger. He tried to not use any gendering when talking about them, because anyone might be the culprit, but his mind – highly influenced by yearning and certain flowery literature – had wandered off to imagine a beautiful man creating all these paintings with such compassion and love. Oh, it was like his childish crush on Oscar Wilde and even Sherlock Holmes at one point in his early years. Might he dare to hope for an artist with shocking red hair and shaded eyes?

Aziraphale came out of his wallowing, straightening his posture where it had yielded at the memories.

“Hmm. Too much dwelling from my side. What’s wrong, Anthony? You look rather gloomy.”

"Do I?" Anthony looked down at himself again, more taking stock of himself than wallowing. "Ah, sorry. Must be tired yet."

He unspooled himself and came over to stand beside Aziraphale, appreciating the paintings. He couldn't help to press, a little, fighting against a creeping panic attack.

"What about it, hmm? When they catch him? You think you'll still like these paintings after the fact? What if he's just horrible?"

Aziraphale snickered a little, which turned into a soft laugh.

“Of course I would still admire them! And sure, there’s always that possibility, but call me a sentimental fool when I think that the way he’s painted these hints towards a person with a beautiful mind. I’m sure they...his own works would be marvelous as well.”

 _Like yours,_ Aziraphale only dared to add in his mind, which made the tips of his ears flush with color.

“You think it’s a man? I have to admit, that was my thought as well, but I didn’t want to take the credit from anyone, really.”

There was still something very off about Anthony but Aziraphale was sure it was the imminent visit of those unpleasant ghosts from the past that was riling him up. Poor soul, it was more than reasonable. And on top of that he hadn’t slept much.

“Do you want to sit down? Rest a little? You look rather pale, dear boy, I do not want you to faint on me.”

"Fit as a fiddle, Angel," Anthony answered around his index finger that he had been casually sinking his teeth into. He rolled his head towards Aziraphale and smiled. "Sorry. Yes. Actually, yeah. A sit down. Not a bad idea."

He dusted his hands together and strolled too casually to the couch, flopping down to cover all of it. Then, as though remembering himself, crossed his ankles and put them up over the back of the couch to give room, though there were plenty of other options to sit. Really, he liked Aziraphale close....

Anthony crossed his hands over his chest and closed his eyes, telling himself it was just for a moment, that's all, rest his eyes. The music was soft and familiar and though he should be embarrassed to fall asleep on front of his friend, he didn't seem to really mind, swimming in that hazy head space of unreality as he started to drift off.

The other options weren’t even considered and Aziraphale took the seat beside his friend, not minding his strange position at all. If he had learned just one thing About Anthony Crowley, it was that he had the ability to sprawl and sit funny just everywhere. It was endlessly endearing.

Aziraphale wanted to say something, keep the conversation flowing when he saw how the sharp features started to relax, the rise and fall of Crowley’s chest was slowing down. Oh someone, he looked even more beautiful in this vulnerable and open state. Much younger, now that there was no frown or snarl. Aziraphale knew that staring at a sleeping person was somewhat creepy, but he couldn’t take his eyes off him. And then there was a stray strand of hair that had fallen out of that messy bun and he couldn’t help himself. Aziraphale brushed it away from that handsome face, ever so lightly and careful as not to wake Anthony.

After another while, it seemed rather chilly in the room and there was no blanket in sight. So Aziraphale got up and took his coat from the rack, gently draping it over the sleeping artist. And to not do anything more reckless, he got up and made some tea, getting a catalogue and studying it on the couch. He did not leave Anthony’s side, however.

Nearly half an hour later, Aziraphale was antsy enough to consider Eosphoros’ men might be joining them. He was remiss to wake Anthony, but he didn’t want the poor man to be caught unawares.

“Anthony, dear. Get up.”

The sound was gentle and the whole place felt warm and smelled deeply of Aziraphale that Crowley breathed in more, surprised that his arms were covered. He opened his eyes and looked down, lifting his hands out from under the coat and twisting his legs back down to the ground.

"Oh." Anthony wiped his face and fought against a stretch, looking across at Aziraphale. "Shite. Fell asleep? Sorry. Sorry, not great company." He chuckled and finally did lean back, stretching his arms haaaard overhead before he dropped them to his lap. "How long's it been? Not very." He glanced at his wristwatch, some absurd thing in a burnished black, and got up, holding onto Aziraphale's coat. "They're almost here, aren't they? Shit, slept the whole time...you didn't have to...ah."

Anthony shook his head as too many ideas crashed together and finally stilled, holding out the jacket, his face turned slightly away.

"Er, sorry. And. And thank you. For this."

It was something fascinating, seeing that lithe form stretching up to full height. Aziraphale smiled softly again and took his coat.

"Don't feel sorry about that, dear. You were exhausted and in dire need of rest. I occupied myself with reading and I wasn't too bored. It was kind of... companionable to be honest. You slept about twenty minutes. Thought you might want to get a little head start before you get startled by them arriving."

Watching the normally so alert Anthony sleep beside him had stirred something warm and incredible inside Aziraphale’s chest. He wanted to preserve this moment of tranquility, taking every small detail in. It was a contrast to that physical attraction already so clearly cemented in his being.

Oh dear.

The conservator did not get enough time to fret about this new discovery however, when his pinged with another message, stating that Prince would arrive in five minutes. Anthony was combing out his hair from the hair tie and looked at Aziraphale.

"That's them, right?" Anthony nodded before Aziraphale answered and moved around, looking for a blazer jacket and shoes. It seemed smarter to be completely dressed for Prince and their underlings and he instinctively redid his hair in a half-bun topknot as he found a pair of black loafers and slipped them on.

When he was dressed, he went back to Aziraphale and touched his arm.

"Alright. Let's face these bastards together.

“Are you sure? I could—”

“Can’t let you have all the fun.” He winked, even if it was pointless behind his sunglasses.

Aziraphale had only so much time as to give an encouraging nod before the bell was ringing. Then again. Then again! Impatient brutes, how rude!

As promised, Aziraphale made his way over to the door and opened it up to Prince again. They were wearing a black suit with ornamental pins and their goons posted up behind them. Hastur, the sickly pale blonde, was about to abuse the poor bell again and looked a little grumpy about being robbed of the opportunity.

"Good day, gentlemen... Persons.... Err…. Step in!" Aziraphale started with a nervous smile and stepped aside. If Prince was annoyed, it was hard to tell from their expressionless face.

"So?" they asked as they stalked in. "What’s the verdict?"

Aziraphale nodded and strode over to the propped up paintings, arranged in the order of the two fakes first.

"Yes, right to the point then. These two are forgeries, unfortunately. Very good ones indeed and almost 100% from the same individual as the one they found over at Dinah's."

This was the easy part. The conservator pointed out why he had come to this conclusion, even though all involved faces seemed to be more than bored by the lecture. Eventually Prince waved a hand, cutting the babbling man off.

"Right. We get it, you made your point. So, the last one is good?"

Of course it was. They knew. They knew exactly where it came from, and how it was procured. Just playing along and seeing how much this relic from the last century knew.

Aziraphale, for his part, hated being interrupted. He had a captive audience! But it might be for the best if he didn’t push his luck. He shot his unwilling audience a tetchy look but carried on after he had smoothed down his waistcoat.

"The third, yes. That one is fine. No signs of the forger’s hands in _this_ one."

And that was all he was allowed to say on the matter. Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek when Prince nodded and made a quick gesture for Hastur and Ligur to collect the paintings.

"Mr. Eosphoros sends his regards. Here, to cover for the inconvenience."

They fished two pieces of paper out of their pocket, handing them to Aziraphale. Anthony had been ignored for the most part, only side-eyed by Hastur once or twice through the formality of the assessment. Aziraphale took a look at what he had received, gasping. There were two cheques, covering a very grateful sum for the two of them.

It felt dirty right away.

"I- that is we, uh, thank you?" Aziraphale stammered. The two goons were already packing up the paintings, taken the real Rubens with them. Aziraphale watched it with flitting eyes, hands fidgeting.

“Do you need to take all—”

“Yezz.”

Aziraphale stepped back like Prince had struck him, looking down at the cheques again.

"Always glad to be of assistance, you know. Ähm, if I may be allowed to ask.... What will happen to them now?"

"We'll pass the forgeries on to Interpol, of course," they said with a snarl. It was entirely unclear if they were being sincere or not. "And the other one will return to our boss’s collection. So, Mr. Fell, Mr. Crowley. Thank you and so on. Come on you two maggots, get out of here."

And without looking back, Prince left, the other two right behind them and somehow managing to slam the heavy fire door that led to the alley where they had parked. Aziraphale sighed after the wake of their shadows.

Outside, just beside the sleek and ominous black transport that that carried them here, Prince turned to their men.

"He knew.”

“Knew what, Boss?” Hastur asked, his voice low and gravelly.

“You saw.” Ligur was smart enough to nod, his eyes bright and attentive. Prince nodded at that. “Saw that catalogue on the couch. They knew exactly where it comes from.”

“They’ll talk,” Ligur said simply.

“Not if we remind them to keep their damn mouths shut. I need you both to pay them a visit this evening.”

“Evening?” Hastur asked, close enough to a whine as he could get. “Why not now?”

“Too much going on down the street. Don’t need either of you getting caught, now, do I?”

Hastur nodded and mumbled something in his collar.

"What was that? "

"Nothin, Boss.” Except it was something and he didn’t let the thought linger too long. It popped out of him like a bubble. “Just that Crowley fellow. Looks familiar, the flash bastard. "

"Yeah..." Prince propped their short legs up on the console, showing off their fishnet socks. "If you’re so inspired, Hastur, see to that matter as well. When you're at it." A cart blanche order to fuck up someone was just what Hastur had hoped for, and he grinned, back to being pleased with himself. He ribbed Ligur, who grinned back and he started the car, pulling them out onto the street.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A horrible accident of a discovery is made, and then it somehow gets worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that this is all finished, but work is uhhh insane right now so my opportunities to edit the chapters are limited. Apologies in advance, and thanks for sticking it out this long!

Back in the gallery, Aziraphale locked the door and turned around to let himself fall against it, slowly sliding down to sit.

"Oh, thank you, Lord, for this is over."

"Can't believe we're handing over a real Rubens to those bastards."

Anthony came over and hooked his arm around Aziraphale's, dragging him away from the door, like it might suddenly incinerate. Truth be told, he was absolutely rubbish through the whole ordeal and wound so tight, he felt close to collapsing himself. He played with his collar, damp at the neckline where he had been sweating, and laughed a little too forcefully.

"Refreshments? Hmm? Something? I think we need something, Angel, you handled them so well."

The low-grade dread began to dissipate from the gallery as they stepped lightly through it and Anthony hid them away in his sitting area. He meant to go to the kitchen. He meant to get them nibbles or something else to distract, but he just sat down and slumped back on the sofa, immediately shoving his hands up under his glasses and rubbing his eyes hard.

Aziraphale sat beside him. He needed a moment of rest, just acknowledging how tense he had been himself when it rushed out of his body. Anthony looked positively wrecked through.

"It's breaking my heart as well, but what could we do? Thank you for saying that, I think I just barely managed."

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Right, Anthony needed some comfort now, quite more than Aziraphale. The conservator patted his friend's thigh and stood up, walking in the direction of the kitchen.

"You got something stronger than wine, dear? I think we could do with a whiskey or bourbon or something..." Even vodka would be fine now.

"Stronger?"

Right, he was being a bad host!

Anthony popped up from the couch, moving with all the languid whip of a body who had practiced yoga for thirty years, and sauntered in after Aziraphale.

"Ah, you don't think I wouldn't keep stocked?" He found Aziraphale poking in his cabinets, went over, and tugged one open. Yes, he had the wine collection, perhaps a little too overfull and should have spent more money on, say, food, but he was getting better about budgeting it with a little silent encouragement from his friend.

Still. It wasn't the only thing he had in the place.

Anthony stretched up, higher than Aziraphale might be able to reach or see, and pulled down a nice, full, uncracked bottle of bourbon from the top shelf. Literally. The glass was slightly dusty and he thumbed it away from the label before he turned it around and showed it off to Aziraphale. "Glasses are behind you, let me just clean this up and we'll toast to our successful...handlement...handling of certain mobsters. And to ensuring the Rubens doesn't get destroyed until we can sic Interpol’s finest and meat-headiest on them."

The conservator beamed and turned around to snatch the glasses. It wasn’t like he was in on getting outragedly drunk today, but the burn of something with a little more pep could be something grounding.

“I’ll meet you on the couch then,” he said and ventured away, waiting for Anthony to follow.

And so, they moderately drank and talked about all the irrelevant but soothing things they could muster. Like life in university, terrible dates, strange occurrences at work. Just everything to get the horror out of their systems, clipping to that normalcy of trivia. And it worked quite all. Given the fact that Anthony’s eyes were always obscured, the rest of his features looked more relaxed.

“Say, why do you always wear shades? Aren’t they distorting the colors? Is it a condition you don’t want to talk about or just that sprinkle of mystery that you exude? In vogue, perhaps?” He ended with a crooked grin, nipping from his glass.

They were both sprawled comfortably now, as much as you could call Aziraphale’s posture a sprawl. He was leaned back, one arm over the headrest or the couch. It was quite endearing that he could be so relaxed and, honestly, Anthony had laughed so many times today that it seemed impossible they were ever visited by anyone else. It was just comfortable. And comforting. He couldn't imagine going back to the man he was, distant and aloof and keeping everyone five feet away from who he truly was.

"These?" Anthony's head flinched back as he clearly tried to focus on the bridge of his nose. He set his glass down and hooked a finger under the arm of the frames, lifting them away, his eyes closed a moment before he opened them to adjust to the light.

They were...quite normal, as far as eyes go. Pale. Almost gold, but no horrible mark or mar or something that he might be hiding. Sure, he had bags under his eyes, but who didn't.

"Just like the aesthetic, I guess," he answered and laughed as he turned them around to look at the mirrored lenses. "Got used to people not knowing where I was looking. Honestly? Feels kinda naked without them." He laughed again, and set them down on the armrest, suddenly very aware where he was looking and unable to meet Aziraphale's eye.

There it was again. That moment when time seemed to suddenly slow down. When those eyelids opened, long lashes giving way to such pretty eyes. Aziraphale didn’t even notice that he had held his breath for the whole scene. His look shifted to a similar one as of some hours ago, when he had doted on the artist.

“What a shame, dear boy. To hide such gorgeous eyes from the public, really.” He should have flinched at the cheesiness of his statement, but he was too entranced already. It only made the artist before him even more charming and beautiful. “They remind me of a Turner. Such a warm color...almost like in ‘Sunrise with sea monster’....”

Aziraphale blushed and took a more generous sip from his bourbon, resulting in him coughing from the sting of alcohol. He had just compared Anthony’s eyes to a bloody Turner. Like he was a lovesick university student again, writing poems for his crush at three in the morning.

And, in turn, Anthony scrubbed his bottom lip with the blade of his finger, attempting to control both his breathing and his heart rate. He giggled, just to let off some steam.

"That's, uh, overly kind of you," he muttered and finally, finally looked Aziraphale dead on.

He may have held his gaze for nearly thirty seconds. It dragged in a way that was thrilling and terrifying. Aziraphale's soft, almost gray eyes seemed bolder when his cheeks went ruddy, and it made his hair look shockingly white. It should not be so endearing to watch someone almost combust under their own thoughts, but Anthony simply wanted to drink him in and hold how exactly he looked in this moment. He wished he could sketch Aziraphale. Well...again. There were so many hidden attempts in his notebooks. He should be ashamed by that thought and miraculously found he just did not care. Worse, it touched something deep in Aziraphale that he did not dare to name.

And then Anthony glanced down at the glass that Aziraphale was attempting to hide in and fetched up the bottle from the table.

"You need a top up?"

Recovering from his cough, Aziraphale nodded and held his glass up for another round. It would be his last for sure. He did not, under any circumstances, need to get too tipsy and loosen his own tongue. There was too grand a chance at horrible poetry. Or bad similes. Either or. No no no, he wouldn’t destroy his friendship by getting romantic on a Rosamunde Pilcher level.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale croaked. “I think I’ll get on my way home after this one. There’s a commission waiting for me that I had to abandon on the behalf of the case and it’s due the day after tomorrow. I still have to fix parts of the frame and renew the varnish and…. But, uh...what would you say about dinner tomorrow? And a nightcap over at my place after, with the prospect of getting thoroughly sloshed?”

It was a risky invitation, considering what would happen. Well, maybe nothing. They would mostly just start to talk nonsense again and fall asleep half on the ground in positions that old bodies shouldn’t be capable of. Right, that would most likely be the case. Or....

Or Aziraphale would slip and say something stupid and given that they were most likely drunk, Anthony would answer something remotely stupid in return and maybe Aziraphale would feel bold and...

He stopped his train of thought right there. No kissing. There would be no kissing! And he had already asked about dinner, so he could not take it back now. He didn’t want to. He craved for that impossible thing to happen, actually. More so after seeing those golden eyes.

"Dinner?" With the spoken agreement to get drunk together? Anthony sat up more. "Deal. No, wait...will it...be sushi?" he asked delicately. "Ah, I don't even mind it. Still a deal!"

Did he sound too eager? It definitely did not matter.

Of course, after agreements and arrangements were made, they finished up their drinks and slowly, reluctantly, prepared to part. Anthony asked him several times if Aziraphale was alright to go, if he didn't want to stay longer, followed up by insistence that he really did need to finish up that commission.

"Well, as always," Anthony said, leaning against the wall by the front door, "you'll let me know when you get back to yours?" An agreement they had any time they spent the evening - in this event, the afternoon - together, they would let the other know when they were home safe and sound.

"Of course I will. Right when I set foot in my shop, I promise," Aziraphale answered with a warm smile. It wasn't just any cheap excuse to leave, the work was waiting for him, right there on his work bench. He didn't want to go. He wanted to stay, share stories, laugh about how this surreal day had been, just to enjoy more of the other's company. "Don't stay up until dawn again, you hear me? Almost dawn is also forbidden. Conservator's orders!"

He snorted shortly after and bid his goodbye, making his way down to the street to fetch a taxi.

_What both of the foolish pining men did not know was that a different duo was just arriving at the gallery. A crowbar was lying on the back seat and Hastur was eager to get some use out of it this fine evening._

After he closed the door, Anthony thumped his head against the door and laughed at himself. It was a gentle chastising before he shoved away from the door and went back through, up the stairs and to the locked room where he was repainting The Hermit and the Sleeping Angelica. He slipped on his headphones, playing something soft and lilting, as he trapped the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He was perched up on the stool in front of his painting, mixing the pale colors for the face, which was incidentally his favorite section to work on. He did not touch paint to canvas, just mixing and staring up and thinking trailing thoughts that went after a fine-haired conservator. Getting dinner. Getting closer. Yes, he quite liked that.

The cabs were quite busy at the moment and after almost fifteen minutes of trying, Aziraphale huffed. Then huffed again, looking down at empty hands. Right, now he’d managed only his coat and completely forgot his tools at Crowley’s!

He got back to the gallery again and knocked, without any stirring from inside. He rang the bell and waited. Nothing. The conservator sighed and leaned his head against the door while he tried to get his hands on the phone. With a quiet little click the door gave way and nearly tossed him into the foyer.

Aziraphale stumbled in, baffled at what had happened. This was so very rude, intruding as such, but he would explain himself in an instant. And maybe Anthony could call him a cab because it always seemed to work if he did. But there was no Anthony far and wide.

"I'm sorry to intrude like this dear, but the door was open," he said with a raised voice. No answer. Well, he couldn't go without explaining the situation, could he? So Aziraphale ventured deeper into the gallery.

"Hello? Anthony? It's me Aziraphale."

Still no reaction. Maybe he had gone out. Or maybe, he was upstairs in his mysterious flat. The conservator had never officially been invited up there, but these were trying circumstances. He should get home! That’s as trying as he needs it to be. And, really now, he couldn't go without an explanation. And he was so curious, like a reporter from the Sun. So, after some fretting, he made his way up into the unknown, babbling apologies all the while.

At first glance, it wasn't too different from the gallery. Light's were mostly out, however, only one room illuminated the corridor.

Aziraphale made his way there, already planning his apology. He entered the room, blinking for the change of lightning.

"Anthony? I'm so sorry my dear, I forgot my—"

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks. He was starting at the scene before him. An unfinished Rubens. Almost looked like the real deal, even now in this state. And in front of it, tenderly picking up some color on the brush was...

" _You_?!"

It came out as a strange mixture of cry and a loss of voice. He could do nothing more than stare.

Anthony didn't hear Aziraphale right away, swaying slightly to the music, humming, until that loud, accusation. It punched him through his back and he jumped and turned around.

"Aziraphale?" The stool scooted and nearly toppled away from his easel. His brush clattered to the floor. Luckily he was only holding the one instead of the uneven claw he got when he really got into his work, several brushes jammed in tight against his knuckles.. "You...I...th-this. This...is a...you shouldn't be here."

He stepped closer, trying to obscure the scene.

"I can explain." Could he? He ripped his headphones off, draping them around his neck, slowly walking closer and closer. "This...this is...just a hobby! My hobby! I can have hobbies. They're good for you. You shouldn't. This. Isn't. Anything. You know that."

He only made a half step back, too caught up in the scene, looking panicked and pathetic.

Aziraphale’s mind was racing. All that he had found out, the way Anthony had behaved through this case. He was in a state of pure shock before anger started to simmer through it, like a centered beam of light through a magnifying glass on a piece of paper.

"A hobby?! Sure, replicating Rubens is a hobby!" he pressed out, voice rising. "Why haven't I seen it? I should – in your painting that you gifted me. The. Of all…you! All the things I said! You lied to me this whole time!"

Now, there was a crack in his voice. The anger was still there but hurt was pouring in. He felt deeply embarrassed and exposed. All he had said about the forger. All their meetings. Everything built on a lie!

_Aziraphale had not closed the door, which delighted two gentlemen coming up the icy street. And they had only to follow the screaming inside the gallery. How perfect._

"I didn't...I mean I did. I... Aziraphale, just...listen!" Anthony stepped closer to him, quickly tossing aside the painting pallet. "It wasn't a lie. It was...an omission of truth. Slightly different. We can go downstairs and discuss this." Anthony reached around him to open the door when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. "Did you drag the cab driver in here with you to chew me out?"

And now Anthony was so close, which only added another feeling to the mix. Aziraphale had opened his mouth to shout his thought about 'an omission of thruth' into that irritatingly, sadly still beautiful face when his thought was cut to the quick.

"I- no. The door was open. I just stepped in and..."

Now he heard it too. Aziraphale frowned and turned around to look what was going on when he bumped right into the hard torso of Ligur. Aziraphale looked up into that grinning face, full of confusion himself as he was violently shoved back into the room. He tumbled and bounced hard right against Anthony, almost taking both of them down.

Hastur stepped in like a pale, sickly shadow beside his partner, crowbar casually laid over his shoulder.

"Evenin’ gentlemen. Mr. Eosphoros sends a little message to both of you about that paintin'"

"Shit."

After he found his feet again, Anthony yanked on Aziraphale's arm, standing side by side as the tall thugs just came into his bloody gallery, no issues, taking up space, radiating their perfectly unctuous threatening aura easy as anything. Like they were born for it. More likely they were born into some poverty or in the right neighborhood or plenty of other reasons that built them up to be these perfectly wonderful awful people.

"Fuck."

Really, the crowbar. The _fucking_ crowbar. Wielded like a club or like a poor, mishandled broadsword. Hastur's favorite right there. Honestly. It might even be the same one as before and as Anthony was thinking, _Does that still have my blood on it_? he realized they were cornered.

"No, hold up, j-just. Just hold up. Gentlemen. Please. How are you, hmm?"

"Fine,” answered Ligur answered with a crooked grin. “And you?”

Ligur came closer, blazing eyes focused like meteors barreling in on Aziraphale. It was Aziraphale who had interacted with them most today. It was Aziraphale who had uncovered the forgeries. It was Aziraphale who would need the most convincing. He grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels of his waistcoat, yanking him forward and coming uncomfortably close into his personal space. Aziraphale couldn't help himself and let go an undignified squeak.

“Hey!”

“Quiet,” Hastur growled at Anthony.

"We appreciate your thoroug work on those paintings. Real craftsmanship there, we appreciate that,” Ligur said to Aziraphale’s throat. “It’d be a shame if word got out what you did for us, wouldn’t it? Could see the inside of your own skull if you forget yourself and spew something out. What do you think?”

That takes the cake. Just discovering your close friend – yes and crush, yes, of course, let’s not lie about ourselves in the face of danger, shall we? – and the secret forger you had been lusting after for the past months are one in the same, you have a little crisis. And now it was compounded by these two thugs returning to, to what? To give them a sound beating? Could this day get _any_ worse?

Meanwhile, Hastur was eying up Anthony, stepping closer and using his beloved tool to raise Anthony’s chin.

"I remember you. We had the pleasure before, didn’ we? You git, I know you! Couldn't keep a low profile back then, neither. Seems like some never learn, huh? Need a reminder of how to stay put?"

If someone could suddenly gain an ability and freeze time, wouldn't that be great? Put a pin in this, grab Aziraphale, and book it?

Not even a bad idea, that. Running.

"No,” Anthony answered, trying to keep a tremor out of his voice, “no, I'm not shopping around for lessons."

Anthony swallowed and even batted Hastur's crowbar away from his chin, the sting of metal very strange and sobering.

"And, seriously? Take your hands off him, you bastard."

He shifted over to try and shove Ligur away from Aziraphale, who looked like a boiling bot ready to blow its lid. Hello, Raging Conservator. How hot you look now. No, shove that thought down, mortal danger. Also, possibly lost a friend today after he found Anthony's secret. Lament at a later time. Yes.

"Seriously, we weren't going to fucking blab. Could you fuck off?"

Apparently, this seemed to be the wrong approach. Hastur grabbed Anthony by the shoulder, yanking him away from Ligur.

"Don't you fucking dare to touch 'im," Hastur growled and landed a meaty smack with the metal crowbar right against Anthony’s stomach. He groaned, folded in half, trying to catch his breath. One elbow was raised to drive into his back, but Hastur thought better and curled his hands into Anthony’s hair, yanking him to stand up straight, gritting his teeth, and thwacked the crowbar into his stomach a second time.

That was it. Last straw. Final hour. Take your bloody pick.

Sure, was Aziraphale enraged and confused about Anthony's actions? Yes. Did that give these bastards any right to rough him up? Hell _no_.

Ligur was just laughing about the face the poor gallery owner made when a very firm fist hooked into his solar plexus. The crunch of bones was not nearly as painful as the sweetness of hearing Ligur yelp, of watching him fall back. Another punch, glancing off a shoulder. Another, to the ribs this time. Ligur had the wind knocked out of him and was not spared a moment of recovery, as another blow was set to his chin, making him topple over and land on the ground with a pathetic groan.

"Oi! You fucking bastard I'm gonna—"

Hastur snarled and raised his crowbar. But Aziraphale had used the momentum to pick up a can of paint that had been standing at his foot already. How fitting that it was a carmine red. A bit melodramatic when it crashed against Hastur’s temple with dangerously sharp precision. Though one might not that that was not paint spilling out of the cut on Hastur’s head, staining his wispy pale hair. Hastur's eyes rolled up into his skull and he fell like a tree freshly felled. It was by no means a healthy sound when Hastur became a heap on the floor. Though they were blessed with a low groan, so at the very least Aziraphale hadn’t just committed manslaughter.

Aziraphale stood there, panting, the can still in a slightly trembling hand.

"Oh dear..."

_Oh dear?_

Anthony felt like he had been knocked out for a second. Not even from Ligur's punch - which, ow - but by seeing Aziraphale in action. Holy _shit_.

"Holy shit, Angel," he repeated out loud, his attention only drawn away when Ligur started to sluggishly rise from his unfortunate position on the floor. "C'mon."

He held Aziraphale's hand, the other cradling his abdomen like a poor sucker, and started to drag him out of the room. "We'll phone the police. Hurry!"

Still too much in shock about what had happened, Aziraphale just let himself get dragged along. His mind was stuffed with cotton, information only soaking in very slowly. But the mention of the police got his attention.

"No!" he exclaimed dramatically, struggling to keep up with Anthony and his long long legs. "I mean, they'll find out about you. We...we can't."

They definitely should. Like honest citizens. But he had just knocked down two men, rather violently and was dragged along by a forger he admired on too many very unrighteous levels.

A load groan and muffled curses could be heard and Aziraphale doubled his efforts to keep up with Anthony.

"We have to get out of here. Somewhere far far away!"

There’s a thought.

Mr. Eosphoros wasn't going to just ignore them now, after the little fiasco in the gallery.

Anthony gripped Aziraphale's arm tightly and pushed him slightly into the wall, cognizant not to outright shove and abandon him. He pinned him a moment, making his own calculations, and then ran as quickly as he could to his room. He snatched up that bug out bag that he had been keeping on a chair "just in case."

They'd stop by Aziraphale's. They'd be quick. They'd be careful to check if anybody was nearby and they'd just be in and out and–

Ligur staggered to the door he was supposed to race by to get to Aziraphale once more. Crowley tripped and pressed against the wall, standing still, his heart racing fast and his breathing short, almost raking, before he gripped his bag and smashed it into Ligur's head. Learned from the best with Aziraphale just on the other side of the entryway of the gallery. He lost his grip, the bag slipping, and watched Ligur crash back, giving Anthony the chance to race down to Aziraphale again.

"Go go gogogogogogo," he said quickly, quietly, and went with Aziraphale back downstairs. He had keys neatly laid on a hook by the back door, wallet and phone in a bowl to avoid ruining the lines of his clothes. Shoes by the door too, thank fucking Someone. Anthony scooped them up to carry with them.

Aziraphale followed blindly. They made it out the back door where the Bentley was parked. It felt like forever when Anthony opened the vintage car's doors and he slipped in, panting and eyes darting to the door they just had been running out of.

"For everything that's holy, get this started Anthony! I don't even mind how you drive!"

"Seatbelts," Anthony muttered as a courtesy, his tongue and mind feeling weird and fuzzy as adrenaline started to taper off. He twisted in the seat to look behind them before he peeled out into the evening traffic, screeching the tires, and tore off faster than an old car should, on their way to Aziraphale's place.

Anthony used one hand to steer and the other dial up their contact number for Gabriel at Interpol, only connecting just as they parked near Aziraphale's building. Instead of letting him out, Anthony put an arm over Aziraphale's chest and held up one finger to wait and look around for suspicious vehicles.

"Ah, perfect, we....fuck. Voicemail." Anthony sighed and shifted in his seat again. "Yeah, Gabriel? Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale Fell. Listen, Lucien sent over some men to bully us and we're evacuating the city. We have information. We will give it to you. Do not look for us. Okay." He glanced at Aziraphale, trying desperately to keep his face neutral. "We'll be in touch."

And he hung up before opening his door and going round to get Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale wanted to protest when Anthony phoned the inspector, but it was too late. Just when the other came around to open his door—what a gentleman in such a dire situation—he found his voice again.

“What are you doing, you idiot? They’ll find out! Do you want to turn yourself in?!” he hissed, trying to get his keys out of his coat jacket.

No, obviously he didn't want to be caught or turned in. It was not at all ideal.

"They're going to take the real Rubens and they are going to fuck off with it and then we're going to look suspicious running away. So."

They made it to the back door together and Aziraphale opened up, tugging Anthony along. He just went straight up to his flat, getting his vintage leather suitcase and started to plunder his wardrobe.

When satisfied with the wardrobe, Aziraphale went over to his bed, going down on his knees and fiddling with a board in the floor.

Crowley held onto the suitcase just to keep it from shifting around too much as Aziraphale disappeared to get something.

"What are you doing there?"

After some more shifting and cursing under his breath, Aziraphale pulled a tin box out of the hidden compartment. It was big enough to fit a book and he pressed it to his chest for a second before placing it in the suitcase as well, very cautiously.

“There. Now we can get a wiggle on,” he said with determination and closed the suitcase. On their way down he fetched his purse and a few items, keys and the likes, turning around again to let his gaze roam over his workplace. He was about to leave home for an unforeseen period of time. It felt dreadful. He sighed and got back to the back door, locking it after Crowley got out.

“Where are we going?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long car drive before we finally stumble onto "there was only one bed!"

"I have a place," Anthony explained in surprisingly even tones, now both hands on the wheel as they zipped away for the city limits. Being quite serious about the driving. "Out in the country. Very far away from people. Go there when I need to lay low and clear my head. Not," he added with emphasis, drawing his shoulders up, "as often as you may think. I usually don't get this mixed up in my...business."

His eyes, obviously protected by his sunglasses, flicked briefly towards Aziraphale before they were pinned on the road, racing down the streets like they were on fire, waiting for Aziraphale to start shouting again and demand a different solution.

But there wasn’t any other solution that seemed fit. He could demand to be dropped off somewhere else. But what would he do? Run to the police? He would still be on his own and he had just fought two mobsters, knocked them out even. He was simply fucked. Aziraphale knew that he couldn’t make it on his own here. So, his only possibility to survive this was staying with Anthony.

“Oh yes. Your other business,” he said with unabashed sarcasm. He was still hurt.

After another moment of silence, he spoke again, voice strained.

“You made a fool out of me. Did you enjoy yourself?”

"Yes," Anthony shot back bitterly, now on the defense. "Enjoyed myself thoroughly. Really rocked my jollies, Angel. Woke up one day and said, 'D'you know what? I should really fuck with a conservator. I should just really give it a go with my only friend and see how much I can really torment them. That’ll be a blast."

He rolled his eyes and rounded his shoulders, gripping the steering wheel too tight.

“Your only friend...?”

There wasn’t any anger or bitchiness in his voice anymore. It was more like disbelief. Sure, Anthony wasn’t the most social person he knew. He did everything to annoy them to the point of no return, but saying that Aziraphale was his only friend...

The conservator could feel a pang in his chest. Just there, left side. His features softened unwillingly, and he looked upon Anthony’s profile, the light of the streetlamps shifting over it.

“...I...I’m still cross with you!” There wasn’t much fire behind that. “But...thank you for taking me along...”

He averted his gaze again, looking out the window, hands balled into fists on his thighs. Anthony was not obligated to take Aziraphale with him. Sure, he could potentially sell him out, but the conservator had just begged the other to not call the police. He...he did not want Anthony to be arrested.

Aziraphale still felt the humiliation burning inside him, from all the gushing about the forger and all that. But apart from that, he really liked this unbearable prick.

“Never thought you would be one to enjoy the countryside...”

"I love it," Crowley grumbled, still keyed up and unable to keep some anger out of his voice. Still protecting himself from further mental torment by pissing off Aziraphale more. "No people is a bust, because I like the city. But."

He sneered, even as his body language relaxed, and almost rolled his head back to drape along the seat in mild frustration and embarrassment. Only driving was keeping his attention and he did nothing more than hike his shoulder up a bit again.

"Sunsets are really...pretty. At the cottage. They're...." Oh, fuck it. "Turner-esque."

There was a smile curling at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“I see. So, I’ll be able to compare accurately.”

“Compare…?”

“Nothing.”

Aziraphale relaxed, letting himself sink into the comfortable leather seat a little. Everything was still uncertain and mortifying, really, but he just couldn’t keep his anger up at this point. And now that the adrenaline was sinking, he could feel the throb in his right hand, knuckles aching and especially his pinky finger, where the ring had pressed into his tender meat.

“Sod it.” He shifted in his seat, facing more towards the window to pout. “I think I hurt my hand while serving that punch. One of the first rules had been to never do this with jewelry on.”

“Rules?” Crowley asked, genuinely curious, but Aziraphale didn’t feel up to answering quite yet.

They were on a nice long stretch of empty road. Crowley glanced over twice before he carefully reached and touched under Aziraphale's hand, lifting it closer to inspect it.

"Definitely bruised. And I don't imagine that cut on that knuckle feels any good."

His thumb idly brushed over Aziraphale's hand, glancing back and forth between the road and Aziraphale's knuckles.

"Doesn't look broken. Course, how can you tell? But we'll get ice on it when we're there."

And he finally let go, letting Aziraphale return to his side of the Bentley's interior.

Even under all the current circumstances, that spark came back to life. The same spark that had been gently zapping between them in Anthony’s kitchen. It was only there for a brief moment, but Aziraphale could feel his eyes going wider and his cheeks heating up. It was just a gesture of concern, looking after the well-being of a friend...it still made his heart flutter for the moment.

“Ice, yes. Good idea, that,” he mumbled, flexing his hand again for a completely different reason this time. “It’s funny how the body remembers certain things learned. That was quite a good punch, even if I hurt myself. Haven’t done this since my first years in university...”

Perhaps he _was_ up to explaining more.

"Back in...wait what?"

Anthony tried to reason why Aziraphale would be punching people back in his University years. Did he end up going to some really shitty college and caught up in a fight club? It amused him enough that he also dropped his grumpy facade, his mouth quirking up into a smile.

"You secretly some martial art master in your spare time, Mr. Conservator?"

Aziraphale snorted but kept his eyes on the glass beside his face.

“Dear Lord no, far from that. I just happen to have a very good muscle memory. When I started university, I had a mild...’obsession’ with Sherlock Holmes. He boxed, so I started it as well. I didn’t keep it up for long. Too brutal for my taste and I was afraid of damaging my hand. My father was overly pleased, however, since I chose such a manly sport.”

Another snort, not as amused this time. “I ended up dropping it for the sake of fencing. But like I said, my muscle memory is as fine as my mind’s, as it seems.”

He dared to take a look at Anthony to see what kind of reaction that information brought forth. He surely would laugh about it, but Aziraphale was fine with that. And he managed to not give away that it had been more than pure admiration for the fictional character that had made him pick up the sport in the first place.

Unfortunately, Anthony was fixed on the idea of Aziraphale with his shirt undone, sweater, knuckles red, panting over some faceless, nameless rogue laid bare on the street before him. He squirmed a little in his seat and cleared his throat, resting his cheek on his left hand, which he had propped his elbow up on the window shield to remain disinterested. Worse when he imagined Aziraphale in a pirate’s regalia, carving his initials in some ne’er do well, a fair-haired Zorro. Well, shit.

"Fencing, yeah. Uh, sounds... expensive?"

Fuck if he knew, he was just a big fan of the old Errol Flynn flicks. Fancied himself a poor knock off in his more delirious and pompous moments, at least in way he tried to carry himself, before he really got into the Bond films.

"You, uh...you were good, though. Like. How you knocked Ligur out. Really hard to do, as far as I've...heard. About."

This lamb chop of a gentleman, this sheep in fancier sheep's clothing was more wolf than Anthony anticipated. It should not make him squirm as much as it did!

Well, the old car got a bit drafty anyhow. It was good to stay warm. Squirming.

“Yes, it is. I think I had the momentum of surprise and pure adrenaline. It has it’s perks to get underestimated most of the time.”

Aziraphale chuckled, remembering other occasions when people had thought he wouldn’t be capable of something. He had always been a little rounder. It was just the way he was built, really. He remembered his father ‘encouraging’ him to lose the gut, but as much as he tried, Aziraphale had not been able to manage that. And he had made his peace with it in the end. There had been many insecurities but as soon as he had started university, living away from home, he noticed that he could be appealing in the eyes of another. Preferably of other young men. Oh yes, university had been an eye-opening experience throughout.

Right. Aziraphale tried to get back to the conversation at hand. All that mind-wandering and subsequently mind-wrangling lately was exhausting.

“And yes, fencing is a bit more pricey than other sports, but my parents were really eager to give off a sense of high-society. You know how it goes.”

“I nannied once for this rich family,” Anthony admitted off-handedly. “Pay for schooling.”

“You…?” Aziraphale spun on Anthony. “ _What_?”

Anthony did his best not to round his shoulders up. He wasn’t even sure why he said it. Today was an uncommonly revealing day.

“Not for long. Just a summer. I know, I know, most people think a nanny, you have Mary Poppins in mind. And I would’ve rocked the dress suit.” He chuckled before it died into a cough in his shoulder.

Aziraphale’s eyes were too big and wide for his face, but he reared them back in same as he reared in those _thoughts_ he’d been having on Anthony Crowley. Worse when he imagined him in a tight black jacket and pencil skirt, thigh-high stockings up to…goodness _gracious_ , again?

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered.

“Right,” Anthony said. And then, desperate to have the conversation taken off him, Anthony shifted and made a little jabbing gesture. “So how long did you fence?”

“Oh, throughout…I mean it’s been a time.” Aziraphale was yanked out of his own at that and nodded. Back to himself, then. Suppose that’s alright. “I just liked it because it reminded me of those old sword-fighting movies and novels.”

“Errol Flynn?” Anthony perked up some, grinning against the back of his hand with his eyes fixed on the lonely road.

“Precisely! It is just very aesthetically pleasing, and I was good at it. Won several matches and all that... I can imagine you would have looked dashing, fencing and all.”

It really was a very appealing image. Aziraphale could picture Anthony perfectly in that sharp outfit, dancing across the arena with all the fluid grace of a dancer, the deadly precision to match. And the moment he took his mask off after a match, panting with a healthy shine to his skin, hair mussed and in need of taming...oh yes.

“Why don’t we put on some music?!” Aziraphale looked around him uselessly for a case of CDs instead of going for the obvious trick with the radio. Why an old car like this should have CDs was not at all a concern. It was Anthony. He’d figure out a way to get a player installed.

"Box under the seat. Managed to fit in a tape deck into the dash. Do not ask how, it was a nightmare."

Ah. Not CDs, then. Well, good!

“Tapes. How...vintage” Aziraphale said with a chuckle and tucked the box out from under his seat.

He was pressed back into his seat when Anthony sped up suddenly – slip of the foot, that’s all – which earned him a glare. It wasn’t easy to find something that he liked. Even though the tapes looked to be older recordings, they were still a tad to modern for the conservator’s taste. He randomly fished one out, squinting his eyes to read the band’s name in the dim light.

“What’s a Velvet Underground?”

"Oh?" He thought he had the classics still in there. Must have switched them out when he was feeling moody last month. He chuckled at the road. "You won't like it."

Aziraphale took take on the tape in his hand and nodded with a sudden realization.

“Ah. Bebop….” More digging before, “Oh! There’s Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons_.”

“You would,” Anthony teased.

Nothing to say against that, Aziraphale took the classical tape out of its compartment and into the tape player. He was a fan of the old machines. The sound was different, if not always super clear but somehow more real. More substance. He owned a perfectly functioning original gramophone from the 1920’s.

The first swell of music already smoothed over them and it was comforting. It sailed them through the night and out to the secluded property.

It was just inching up to 10 when Anthony pulled them into the short gravel park outside a quintessentially quaint cottage. Short dark shutters. A garden with a pergola. A nice red door to greet them in, per Feng Shei. There was a small garage nearby for the car, but Anthony just parked them outside. The back yard was corralled by a short stone fence and tall hedges that come summer would be green again. Someone had the park and sidewalks, not that it had snowed much yet. January. January it would be a bother. He suspects it’s his gardener/keeper of the place and reminded himself to call her in the morning to let her know he was in town. A gate led out to a paver path that eventually made it to the cold and dark ocean.

"Uh, it's...yes." Anthony stared out his window as the arrangement for Vivaldi’s winter tapered off and then died when Anthony killed the engine. How perfect for the season. "Home away from home. Here."

The whole cottage was completely at odds to what Aziraphale had expected. That garden, even just the bits he could see around the garage and the fence, looked quite large and well-groomed. The property was secluded from its neighbors and the treeline only tempered but did not completely obscure the ocean nearby. Picturesque. That was it. And even through the dark and the cold, it was clear _how_ true that was. Aziraphale could not believe what a difference this already was, compared to the Mayfair gallery with all its cement and stark lines. Anthony was a creature made of contradictions that strangely fit together so perfectly.

He thanked Anthony and got out of the car, taking his suitcase, waiting.

"It's beautiful, from what I can see. Please after you."

Anthony led the way inside, pawing at the wall for a moment before he flipped up a light switch. There was a rustic-looking chandelier with six sconces in the center, emitting a low warm light. The sitting area had a couch, a chair, a rug. Tables. They were a little small and already Anthony could see they needed a dusting, formally arranged together on one side with a huge easel and several canvases arranged in the other corner. More lights to illuminate his workspace.

Thank _someone_ it wasn’t freezing. The keeper had to have been inside, too, and the dissipating heat from earlier was enough to temper them from the absolute chill of winter. Anthony made quick work of starting up the fireplace with a switch. Yes, it was all quaint and everything, but he’d insisted on gas because he couldn’t be arsed to get himself firewood for the few occasions he came up during the cooler months. Rarely, but still.

With the fire going, Anthony casually walked over and flipped around one of the paintings, an older piece, and simultaneously reached to turn on another lamp, trying to mask what he was doing by giving them more light to work with.

This was such an artist thing. A little hideaway somewhere to let the inspiration flow and all this. It didn’t go unnoticed that Anthony was smoothly turning a work around, but Aziraphale wouldn’t press the matter now. Maybe he could take a sneak peek later.

"Kitchen is through there," he said, pointing to an arched entryway, the kitchen dark, but the edge of a little breakfast nook table visible from where they were. "Uh, toilet. Right through there." And he pointed at a door painted black with a little fleur de lis brass ornament stamped onto the center for decoration. Two very robust ferns stood guard on either side of it.

Even dusty and disused, the keeper had on several occasions tried to convince him to turn the whole thing into an AirBnB, but he couldn't stand the thought of strangers migrating through his cottage. He had the money to maintain it and the keeper who looked after it and that was all he needed to think on the matter. Besides, it only had the one....

Wait.

Anthony was about to point up the narrow spiral staircase to the loft above them and quickly withdrew his finger.

"Uh. And. Bed. Bedroom. Bed upstairs."

Aziraphale nodded in acknowledgment when things where pointed out. It wasn’t extremely tiny in here, but everything was just oriented for one person. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise that there was only one bedroom. It still made something flip inside the conservator’s belly and he immediately eyed the couch.

“It’s quite lovely here. If there’s an extra blanket, I’ll gladly make myself at home on the couch.”

He would burn alive if they had to share one bed. Whoever knew how big or small it was? Well, Anthony loved sleeping, maybe it was a bigger one, but Aziraphale did not dare to ask. He placed his suitcase right beside the chair, hands folded in front of him. Slowly, all the adrenaline seeped out of him and exhaustion took its place. It was like a rush of drugs was suddenly coming to a halt. He sat down, sighing in relief. At least the furniture seemed to be more comfortable than the ones in the gallery.

“I’m done for...” he proclaimed. Sitting back and covering his face with his hands. It reminded him of his injury, and he proclaimed it as such with a hiss.

“Ahh, right. Ice. I guess I’ll find it in the kitchen,” he said, trying to get up again with limbs that felt like lead.

"No, you won't," Anthony answered a little firmly and walked behind Aziraphale, pressing down on his shoulder. He patted it soon after in a sort've reassuring gesture and slipped into his kitchen, once more fumbling with the lights. It's not like he didn't know where they were, just that he hadn't been to the cottage in a while and maybe Aziraphale had impeccable muscle memory, but Anthony Crowley sure did not.

There was a little aquamarine fridge, purely for the aesthetic of the thing, that clunked when he opened it. Anthony looked down at several glass bottles of some pomegranate juice and smiled at it, lifting up a bottle and turning it over. Not at all what he would usually purchase, but he wasn't here enough to have opinions on the matter. He set it back and opened the freezer, glad to see three trays of ice stacked up inside. He pulled one out and went to the counter, putting together a clean dishcloth, his head bent towards the sink.

"It's going to be alright. It's going to be alright," he muttered to himself and nodded before he stood up straight and carried the bag of ice out with him.

"Got you covered. Right here," Anthony said amicably, holding up the little cold bundle. "And, listen, you take this, I'll bring your bag up, but you've been through a lot and I insist you go upstairs and take the bed. Seriously. I've passed out plenty of times on this couch." He patted it fondly, petting down one of the blankets expertly draped over the back of it, a contrast of red to the dark leather.

Aziraphale took the little bundle with a grateful smile and hissed again as he pressed it to his injured hand. He might have been exhausted, but he couldn’t just accept this offer of the bed without a fight. It would be downright rude! He was a guest, after all. Well, kind of in their situation. A friendly hostage? Accomplice?

“I _insist_ I take the couch. Both of us have been through a very eventful, er, event and I will not accept stealing your own bed in your own home. I’m fine, really.”

It was little use to argue. They'd have time to make better arrangements in the morning and, honestly, Anthony was feeling wiped out as well. He opened his mouth to say something about just falling asleep down here to be safer, but he was certain they weren't tailed and if Aziraphale was going to be stubborn, he could be stubborn. He set a small bottle of paracetamol down on the side table next to him before he went to the bureau and found one of the quilts inside. A quick run up the stairs and he was back down with a pillow from the bed.

"We can drive over to town tomorrow and pick up some supplies," he said quietly, suddenly weirdly shy about Aziraphale sleeping down here. He busied himself checking the door, locked it, and setting his keys on the hook by the door, the same make he had in his gallery in the city. Nothing else to fuss over. He nodded and went for the stairs again. "Sleep easy, Aziraphale."

As Anthony reached the stairs and said good night, their entire situation seemed to have sunk down to the bottom of Aziraphale’s core, making him feel oddly cold and vulnerable.

“The same to you, Anthony...” he called after him and watched the slender legs disappear into the loft. Aziraphale sat there for a moment, taking the quiet and foreign space in. He felt small, alone and so very exhausted. He sighed and got his suitcase, taking his pyjama bottoms out and starting to change. As he was finished, he went to the kitchen to get a glass of water for the paracetamol, huffing at the stylish fridge. As he made his way back, he came to a halt in front of the painting that Anthony had tried to cover so casually.

There was still that tenacious itch to turn it around and take a look. Surely, after today, he had every right to do so! But then again...no. He sighed and decided that his curiosity had to wait. He would ask. Because, after all that had happened, they still were friends, somehow. Anthony’s only friend...

The conservator clutched his glass and pulled it closer, a sad smile on his face. That silly artist had turned Aziraphale’s life upside down, and even though he should be cross about that, since he hated sudden changes, he couldn’t. This was the first time in a very long time that he felt so alive. He had punched menacing thugs, for God’s sake.

So finally, Aziraphale settled down and tried to get comfortable on the couch. He was sure that sleep would come for him soon enough, with how drained he was. So, he waited. And waited. And Morpheus seemed to skip over him tonight. He shifted several times, sighing and huffing. Occasionally, some creaks and other sounds old houses made startled him out of his drowsy haze.

Two hours nearly made it to three on that blasted sofa.

“Oh – sod it!”

Aziraphale tossed the blanket to the side dramatically, only to pick it up and take it with him. He was hesitating for a split second when he approached the stairs, feeling stupid and like a small child that was afraid of the dark. But he just couldn’t stand this feeling of all-consuming loneliness that had made a home inside his chest, keeping him up and restless despite his dire need for sleep. So Aziraphale climbed the stairs, as quietly as possible and made his way into Anthony’s bedroom.

The loft itself was fairly open, once up the stairs. There was barely a banister that hid it away, the top floor consisting entirely of the bedroom, an attached closet, and presumably that door over to the left was a second bathroom.

There were more plants up here, spilling over tables, exploding near the windows, even something like a tree standing in the corner. And it all seemed to frame the bed.

Aziraphale had been correct to assume. The bed was large, low to the ground, with thick black and red duvet and pillows piled up with one unconscious Anthony flat on his stomach in the middle of the thing. He had bothered to put his clothes into a basket, presumably to be washed, and had apparently found the silk pyjama bottoms he kept at the cabin, though he had not gone so far as to consider buttoning up a top and so was bare from the waist up, revealing some angry looking bruises where he’d been struck by Hastur’s crowbar, with promises of more skin beneath the covers that he had pulled up to the middle of his back.

It was like stepping into some modern Sleeping Beauty production. Aziraphale stood there by the stairs, clutching his blanket like a Peanuts character and gaping at the half naked body on that giant bed. The suspicion that Anthony was a reincarnated cat cemented itself, seeing him occupying a lot of space so effortlessly.

Maybe he should go down again and try to find sleep there. But it already felt so much more secure up here. Shielded, like he had entered an enchanted sanctuary or something. And the sleeping artist was quite a soothing (and exciting) sight. So, the conservator sighed, giving in to his need of comfort and the exhaustion and slipped over to the bed. He found a space to fit in on the right side and made himself as comfortable as possible.

The mattress was the most soft and comfortable thing he’d ever laid on. He sunk into it, sleep finally rushing over him like a riptide. He slowly blinked, the last thing he saw before drifting off being such a beautiful red mane of hair, spilling over bare shoulders and an alabaster back. He was lulled in by the familiar and intense scent that was essentially Anthony, his quite little breathing, and felt safe.


	12. Chapter 12

With the additional warmth suddenly beside him, soft and comforting, Anthony had migrated easily in his sleep, curling quietly around the shape. It was like hugging a pillow with its own built in heater and he sighed quietly against it.

The room was designed as such to get optimal light, a beam intensifying from the skylight while the rest warmed up at the base to provide the plants their apparently necessary nutrients. The bed itself faced west, so it did not stab them directly in the eyes, but the room definitely brightened more than downstairs and Crowley, true to form, buried his head under his pillows to get away from it, ignorant that there was a body near him.

And true to _his_ form, Aziraphale stirred when light filled the room. He was used to getting up with the sun, even though he still felt weighted and slightly groggy from last night’s escapades. He grumbled and turned his head, pressing it into the silky pillow. Since when did his pillows have tassels? And why did they smell like—

Oh.

Aziraphale slowly opened his eyes to find that he had buried half his face in Anthony’s disheveled hair. Ah yes, he remembered coming up here last night because he had been afraid of being alone. Like an infant. He groaned and turned his back on his still half-naked, friend, trying to sit up.

Whoever was talking should stop. Anthony answered with a grumble, then suddenly pushed himself up into a cobra position, his eyes still closed, bruised and firmly shut.

He didn't stay over at anybody's house and that pain below his rib could be mistaken for a black out buggering, but he was 73% certain that wasn't how the night went as his memories did their best to reload. He hummed and turned to his side, dragging his sheets up to his chest, and struggled to open his eyes until he spotted the familiar lump of his friend sitting on the bed.

"Aziraphale?" he grumbled and flopped purposefully on his side, curling up sleepily. "Couch. Right, couch wasn't...you okay?"

Ah, yes, memories of the drive and those two henchmen in his gallery. Knew he was in his cabin. But the function to think and the function to talk were warming up at different speeds and he struggled to get any other coherent thought out of his mouth. It was before noon. Had to be. Man should not be awake this early.

“Mhhhmm...I...couldn’t sleep,” he answered and let himself fall back on the mattress. His instincts wanted him to wake up, but his body certainly was not ready for it yet. He turned his head to look at his friend again, hugging his blanket like a teddy bear.

“I sincerely apologize for my intrusion. I came up here like a child who had some nightmare—”

"Of people following us?"

Anthony nodded against his pillow and closed his eyes again. Should he be freaked out? Aziraphale was in his bed and he had had some certain thoughts about the other gentleman. Things that could be done in bed. And together.

But, honestly, he was just sleepy enough and it was just warm enough that he didn't let himself spiral into chaotic worry. He just...relaxed. And hoped Aziraphale didn't feel too awkward about everything. Later they could figure out proper sleeping arrangements. Hell, they could figure out, just…life arrangements. In general. With what they should do to handle all of this. Maybe Aziraphale could go into some witness protection detail or something. Didn't matter. That was a later issue. Now, Crowley shifted his sheet just to be a little more and covered himself for his friend's sake, but he wasn't going to kick him out of bed.

"Same," Crowley finished finally with a long drawn out sigh and patted the mattress near his chest, only to cough out a surprised groan and chuckled weakly as he rubbed his stomach. "How's the hand feel this morning?"

Aziraphale flexed the hand in question. “A little stiff and swollen but nothing more. I should have taken that ring off, but it’s too late for it now...”

He scooted a little closer. Much more space available, now that Anthony was half awake. There was not much room for inappropriate thoughts in Aziraphale’s mind this morning. Not yet. Hence why he stretched out an arm to lightly pat on Anthony’s stomach.

“What about you? It slipped me completely last night...”

"Careful."

Anthony chuckled and grabbed Aziraphale's hand, not because he was uncomfortable, he just didn't want to be touched too hard. "I'm fine. Sleepy." He shrugged, in a _what else can you do_ sort've gesture. “Think it’s just bruised.”

He did not let go of Aziraphale's hand. He didn't want to and, instead, rubbed his thumb across Aziraphale's wrist again, sighing contentedly.

"Give me a bit," Anthony muttered and nuzzled his own face into his pillow, trying to rub out some of the sleep. "I'll go make us...tea or something. I don't know what's been stocked up."

The brush over the delicate skin was soothing and tingly at the same time, but still in a state of drowsiness, Aziraphale just enjoyed it.

"Don't you hurry. I'm very sleepy myself. Maybe... Ten more minutes... If you'd let me stay, that is..."

He hoped so. This was warm and safe, as if he'd fallen asleep in a little jungle. If someone – probably Tracy – had told him that he would wake up in bed with his new friend Anthony, the conservator would have laughed and brushed this off as something impossible.

Well...see what could be possible, if your best friend turned out to be an exquisite forger, both of you involved in a case about his works that brought up some of the most feared criminals of the London underground.

All of this was too much for his brain to compute now. Aziraphale closed his eyes again as well, still not moving his hand.

"Maybe fifteen..."

Anthony chuckled again, squeezing Aziraphale's wrist again.

"I like the sound of that."

He rolled to his back, shifting slowly, carefully, unconsciously moving so he didn't have to let go of Aziraphale's hand and brought it up to his own shoulder like a second blanket to cover himself, before he settled completely and closed his eyes.

A true talent for sleep, Anthony was asleep within the minute, breathing deeply once more, completely at ease with Aziraphale lying next to him. Hell, even with holding his hand.

The windows warmed with the threat of dangerously stubborn sea birds singing to each other in the cold, taking off, replaced with others in intermittent moments. Crowley forgot how damn peaceful this cottage was and could easily sleep the day away. Scrub it off the map. Try again tomorrow.

Fifteen minutes turned into one and a half hour more. Aziraphale hadn't mind when his hand got moved before, too tired to think. Now, gently woken up by the sound of the waves and the birds, he was far more aware of the position he was in. He blinked his eyes open and looked along the length of his arm, ending with his hand still placed on a very warm and very naked shoulder.

Oh _my_.... Right

Aziraphale blinked quickly and was now cognizant enough to feel utterly embarrassed of what had transpired. He sat up slowly, his eyes raking over the half-naked body before him, highlighted by beams of the late morning sun. He could see the slight stretch of muscles, freckles that were speckled like small stars over the shoulders. Aziraphale gulped. This wasn't good. Not at all.

It was a soft mattress and telegraphed whatever it was Aziraphale did next to him, that, despite his best efforts, Anthony felt him sit up again. He stretched his arms up under the pillow, tugging his knees up, and arching his back with a full body coil and shiver. The sheets were beginning to bunch tighter around his hips, revealing a slip of black. A wave of ink over sharp hip bones. Then Anthony relaxed once more, rubbing his eyes.

"S'pose its that time," he muttered and laughed behind his wrists. "Still need to make the tea."

He flopped his hands down to look up at Aziraphale, who was just sitting there, looking down at him, all quiet and apparently contemplative, and Anthony turned his head.

"Aziraphale?"

Right. No shirt. Anthony tried not to be too obvious as he covered himself again with the wine-colored sheet. He combed his hair quickly off his forehead and started to sit up.

"I can show you the kitchen, if you like. Might not have enough supplies for a proper English breakfast or anything." Like he ever did. "But, uh, town's just a short drive away. They even have a Starbucks. So. Can pick us up something if we don't feel like, you know, waiting. To cook."

Seeing that tempting piece of art covered with the sheet got Aziraphale out of his thoughts, some pink appearing on his cheeks like watercolor added to wet paper. He cleared his throat and turned away, inspecting a nearby plant.

“Tea sounds perfect, yes. And we can get some groceries right after. A-And something for you to change. Since you had to leave your bag behind and all that...”

He cleared it again and stood up, fiddling with the buttons on his pajamas. He had to get out of here or very obvious and mortifying things could happen. Anatomical things.

“I’m – a shower! Yes. Going down to take a shower,” he said and made a hasty retreat to the small bathroom downstairs. He could only wish that he hadn’t stared too hungrily at his dear friend....

"Shower's up—!" Anthony sighed and drew his knees up, resting his arms across the top of them. Aziraphale would soon discover the bathroom downstairs was only a half-bath with a toilet and sink, and more power to him. "…Here. But, hey, can't disparage a good ol' sink bath."

He laughed to himself and tossed away the sheets, leaving the bed unmade for a moment. Stretching again as he walked around it to go the very small closet attached. The stretch, which was arms up towards the ceiling, belly taught, also helped accentuate the rope of black scales rising over his hip bones and dipping back down into the pajama bottoms. He scratched his chest and yawned once more, tip toing to the closet, pulling it open, and leaning against the door as he stared at his predictably black wardrobe.

"So many options," he muttered and laughed at himself, unhooking a black shirt, trousers, and the slightly more obnoxious snake belt he had hanging off a hook. True, there wasn’t exactly variety in here. Enough clothes for a slightly long weekend. But he wouldn't have to put on yesterday’s clothes when they went out to town. He disappeared himself into the upstairs bath - with the shower, sorry, Aziraphale - and got himself ready as quickly and quietly as possible. Seemed his friend was still spooked, and he didn't want to upset him any further.

Aziraphale had heard the other calling after him, but he had been too caught up in his panic to decipher it. Soon enough it dawned on him what Anthony had been trying to tell him when he opened the downstairs bath. Right, a cottage. For one.

He sighed and got over to his suitcase, taking a new set of khakis and eggshell colored shirt out of it. He sniffed when he noticed all the wrinkles, but this couldn't be helped at such a hasty retreat. So, he trotted back up again, glancing around the corner before really stepping in, only to find the room empty. A muffled sound of running water gave him a suggestion of where his friend was and so he settled on the bed.

Only to stand up a moment later to make it and sit down once more. He just really wanted to take a shower and disassociate for about ten minutes.

Anthony washed his face, brushed his teeth, and played with his hair too long before he just put it all up into a bun and stepped out, fussing with his earlobe. He had pierced it decades ago and occasionally put in jewelry, playing with a tiny silver stud he'd spotted beneath the medicine cabinet, when Aziraphale's sudden appearance startled him and he flinched visibly, head to toe.

"Sorry." Anthony laughed, covering his chest with his hand. "Sorry, you wanted the shower, right? Towels under the sink. I'll go downstairs, start the kettle?"

For a split second, Aziraphale’s brain both feared and hoped that Anthony would step out of the misty bathroom naked. Or at least partly. So, it was a mix of relief and disappointment when he got out there, looking sharp as ever. Was that a snakehead belt? Dear lord. And a piercing...

Aziraphale cleared his throat once more and got up.

“Yes, thank you. And I’m the intruder here, so, please. Don’t apologize. I’ll join you in fifteen minutes.”

And so, Aziraphale disappeared into the bathroom, letting all his thoughts, worries and other certain feelings wash down the drain as the hot water rolled down his curvy form. Oh, he had needed this very badly.

After boiling himself alive like a lobster, Aziraphale got ready and joined Anthony in the kitchen. He had left the waistcoat, feeling quite exposed in just a button up and his khakis. The tea was already waiting for him, and he took it with a warm “thank you.”

“Not a problem.” Anthony had sat himself up on the counter. Man of his age probably shouldn’t sit like that, but it was his propery and his counter, so, damn the man who said otherwise.

Unless it was Aziraphale. He'd probably get down and sit at the cozy little kitchenette table for Aziraphale. If he asked....

“Shower okay?”

“Yes, quite.”

Aziraphale sipped his tea like he’d been given the elixir of life and a moment more to come to his senses afterwards. Lovely thing, watching Aziraphale enjoy something. Anthony didn’t even have the decency to look away, but, to his credit, it was before noon. As he said, he was hardly a man before noon.

“So...we need supplies, yes?”

Anthony had apparently gone through the cabinets while Aziraphale was upstairs and winced when he discovered, yep, barely anything. Not nothing. His house keeper had put away those bottles of pomegranate juice for him. And there were crisps in a cupboard above their heads. Some tea. But not much else, unfortunately.

“Yes,” Anthony answered and watched Aziraphale tap his mug, agonizing over the next question for a time.

“How…long? Should we get supplies for, do you think? What’s a, um, a good time to be….” Anthony winced for him and felt a guilty heat go up his face when Aziraphale finished quietly, “on the run?”

"Uh.” _Fuck._ “Good question." Anthony held his own mug up tight to his chest like he was seeping warmth directly into his heart. "I was considering a, um, another phone call. With Gabriel. See if they had any ideas or leads or the likes on...this.” He gestured erratically between them. “I don't want to...I don't want to trap you here or anything. And it's primarily my fault."

Anthony pursed his lips and looked down at his drink again. He'd gone and replaced his sunglasses by the time he had stepped downstairs, so he was afforded a chance to hide behind them once more. Aziraphale might not have his safety net by way of waistcoat, but Anthony had yet to remove his habit of finding literally any pair of shades nearby and putting them on.

"Figured. We should still talk about. Everything," he added lamely on to the end, and covered his morose disposition with a purposeful sip and hum into his cup.

The tea was so very interesting all of a sudden. Aziraphale found himself starring into it as well, a mix of all the emotions from yesterday getting washed up like the wrecks of a ship at the shore. His anger and feeling of betrayal had ebbed already, back in the car when Anthony had called him his only friend. But echoes were still present and an overly fraught sense of doom und uncertainty hung in the air like a Damocles saber.

Aziraphale took a sip and looked up, facing the artist head on.

“It is.”

“Christ,” Anthony said, like he had been punched by the accusation. It was true, but it still hurt.

“And we should talk about it,” Aziraphale continued quietly. “But, just so we’re clear, Anthony. I’m not feeling trapped here. I know if I would have asked, you would have let me go. I’m actually...thankful that you took me with you.”

A short pause. Enough to let Anthony squirm and settle.

Wasn’t this the irony of fate? The artist who had gotten his scholarship was the same who later made such exquisite forgeries that it took decades to be discovered. By none other than the person who had helped said forger into an art institute in Paris. Truly, the ways of the Lord were...ineffable. Strange humor, the Almighty. Like they were pawns on a strange abomination of chess.

The conservator took another sip, studying Anthony’s face intensely, the same way he might study a very detailed painting.

Always with the intense scrutiny, this one. Did it come from with the job? Had to, or else how does one catch fakes.

“So. How long have you been doing this?” Aziraphale asked.

Anthony set his cup down beside him and gripped the counter purposefully and looked back at Aziraphale through his shades.

"Professionally? 20 years next September."

One does not forget the awful thrill of their first time. Anthony Crowley's fall had begun earlier, shady attempts to keep himself afloat, an honest artist or however one should put it, but he'd already made questionable friends and choices and that final plunge into all...this came in September. His rebirth into what he was would be considered a Libra.

Funny enough, so was he, but that was beside the point.

"I made bad investments. I hadn't asked the right questions and I was desperate. Figured the best use of my skills might con only the wrong folks and it wouldn't be that bad. I'd really liked doing replicas. Telling the truth, Ange...Aziraphale," he corrected quickly, the first hiccup, the first little crack in his recently calm façade. "It's good practice and a fine hobby. Just...got out of hand."

Out of hand put it right, yes. He should still be at least cross with Anthony. Shouldn’t feel sympathy at hearing all this. But Aziraphale Fell was known for always doing and feeling what he was not supposed to. It was like a curse.

He did not find any interest in business matters but in literature and the fine arts. He was not a strong and determined man with a healthy routine and steeled body. He was soft through and through, enjoyed destiny way too much and had only found interest in a “manly” sport because he had a crush on bloody Sherlock Holmes as a teenager.

And he should have found a nice and respectable wife, have at least two children and a house in a small town. Instead, he was almost 50, single, and as far from marrying a woman as the distance between our solar system and Alpha-Centauri. So, it was surely no surprise that, even though he still felt a slight pang in his chest, he couldn’t hate the man before him. Life as an artist was hard and most of them took any odd job to come around. He could see how one could fall from social grace.

“Practiced it myself, actually.”

“What’s that?” Crowley asked.

“Recreations. In private, that is. To get the hang of certain techniques and quirks of several artists,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before it fell away again, replaced by curiosity. “And that first encounter with Eosphoros? Was that when you sold them one of your fine works?”

"I mean...." Anthony coughed a little into his hand before wrapping his fingers back around the mug. "What better way than to try to con the Devil of the London Underground, hmm?"

He finally hopped off the counter, picked up his cup to clean it, then set it down once more, turning to Aziraphale. He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, and removed his sunglasses.

"What should we do?" he finally asked, quiet, earnest, and not a small amount of terrified.

“I have no idea.” It hurt to see Anthony cave soon after his admission. What had he hoped for? A miracle? “I think...staying here and keeping a low profile will be the best. For now. We don’t know what Gabriel will do in regards of...you.”

Aziraphale averted his gaze, biting his lip. He did not want to think about the consequences for Anthony. They had left with a half-finished forgery just standing in the atelier, for everyone to see. Of course, little did they know that as the Interpol inspector had arrived, he found nothing of the kind. Signs of a struggle, yes. A painting? No.

But one can’t know these things when one is on the run.

“Getting groceries stocked up might be a good start?” he tried instead. He managed to get a little cheer in his voice, even. “And I’m...sorry for intruding at night. I shall not repeat that behavior and stay on the couch tonight.”

Part of him protested already. The bed had been wonderful and waking up in a lush small jungle, next to a half-naked gorgeous bloke? Priceless. But he couldn’t do this again. Sooner or later he would just get too worked up and surely, with his luck, Anthony would see the result and then everything would be terribly awkward. No, better not risking that.

Anthony suddenly laughed, easy and gentle, closing his eyes.

"Seriously, take the bed. That couch won't be good for you." Crowley slipped his sunglasses back on and turned away to wash the mugs. "I insist. And, you know, don't know how long we'll be here, but if it's too terribly long, I don't know when we can get back to a chiropractor or anything. You want it? Bed's all yours."

He frowned, not entirely sure why, the tips of his ears heating up until he convinced himself to calm down about the matter.

“B-but, what about _your_ back? Sleeping on a couch for a longer period is not good for any back, and neither of us is twenty anymore.”

The laugh was something freeing, lifting the weight of their current situation a little. But still, Aziraphale couldn’t just take the bed. Manners and all that. It was already established that Aziraphale was clinging to those like a drowning man to a wooden plank.

“Well, it is big,” Aziraphale offered, all polite smiles. “We could share?”

Oh no. No, that hadn’t meant to be the point! Hadn’t he just checked that off as “is not happening?”

"Mm?" Anthony set the mug down and turned around, holding the counter again, leaning back to look coyly at Aziraphale over his sunglasses. Then he chuckled and shook his head, stepping away, heading out of the kitchen. "Think on it. C'mon. Let's go get stuff. I think we only have juice and a head of lettuce in there."

They went out through the cabin and Anthony grabbed his keys hanging from the hook by the door. Aziraphale followed, a similar kind of relief welling up inside. Anthony fetched a slightly dusty-dark grey coat out of the closet while Aziraphale shrugged on his winter jacket before he opened the door. The car was still parked. The sun was out. And it didn't look like any mafia had an army stationed at the end of the short driveway. Anthony let out a sigh of relief, unaware he had been tersely holding his breath until he was sure they weren't about to be obliterated and they hopped into the classic car together without nary another word on the sleepy arrangements.

Just out of instinct, Aziraphale searched for purchase on the car’s door as soon as Anthony pulled out.

It wasn't a screaming 90, but a far more respectable 75. That was taking it easy, and still took too long to get to the shops, according to Anthony's usual timeline. He was forced to slow down further because, despite his natural charm with the London police, he'd had less fortune with the tidy police force in town. Villages always being nosy, remembering everyone and their poor driving habits. It was horrible, but it put him down to the speed limit as they parked in front of a quaint row of shops that took up 2 blocks. It looked out to clean boardwalk, which itself looked down onto a rocky shoreline, the ocean cold and steely today. No snow, of course. Nothing that had stuck.

Anthony guided Aziraphale into the store, waiting after him with a basket and fiddling with his phone to call Gabriel once inside, though he could have just done that in the car. He raised his eyebrows in amusement at Aziraphale, walking through the aisles, already set to get anything that Aziraphale should like and perhaps a few things he might enjoy as well so he didn't starve or something equally bleak and silly.

Aziraphale, even without knowing, appreciated that. He was roaming the shop curiously after they got there, but his mind wandered back to the sea. It had been a hot minute since he had made it out of London. He always loved the sea, it’s raw and unpredictable beauty.

As he found Anthony again, after some browsing, he approached him with a smile that called in want something from a mile away. His little basket contained a very nice regional cheese, wine and fresh bread.

“My dear, do you think it would be possible to take a quick walk down at the shore after this? If we don’t buy things that need immediate attention to the refrigerator.”

Not like it wasn’t cold outside anyways, neck deep in winter.

Aziraphale was looking at his company like a puppy, his eyes big and round, full of excitement. He even wiggled for good measure.

Some older gentleman was passing them and turned his head around with a frown at Aziraphale. Who’s to say what bothered him, the speech or the demeanor, but he looked positively sour. The gentleman huffed and shook his head, checking something in the shelves before him.

Crowley had just hung up from Gabriel - his painting was missing? - and turned to catch Aziraphale's arm, smiling easily at him, far easier than he did with anyone else, and looked down at the basket with a surprised little giggle. Then up again.

"Hey, Jules," Anthony called out to the frowning villager.

“Mr. Crowley.”

Small village. It was impossible not to learn a few of the rotating cast out of the shops and their names. But Jules was an old grumpy fellow and Anthony did his best to ignore him, focusing on Aziraphale and his request to walk the shore.

"Uh, I mean...I wouldn't be upset. With a little walk after this. Always sounds good to me." He patted Aziraphale and turned them around to get canned foods and a box of cereal. Yes, it was very sugary. Yes, it was not at all good for them. Anthony was almost convinced to get two boxes but decided just the one would suit them. "Uh, and we can talk about...I mean, I got off the phone with...you know. They stopped by the gallery."

He had dropped his voice and leaned in closer so Jules or anyone else nearby might not overhear them. They'd spread any gossip fast and incorrectly and it would not do any good to rile them up.

Azirpahale’s bright blue eyes widened and he came closer, trying to shift away from the older man who definitely tried to get a piece of information out of this. Just because he could.

“What? Why would they...take it? Who? But…then that means…oh, Anthony! They don’t know?”

This changed things. And raised so many other questions along the way. He grabbed the artist’s arm in return.

“Let’s purchase this and get out, so we can have a more...private conversation, yes?”

Jules gasped. Such strange and juicy titillation, right in front of the canned beans!

They got their groceries, the cashier attempting some small talk with Anthony and asked after his whereabouts and how he’d been. She also greeted Aziraphale very friendly, asking him about him much the same. She might not be as obvious as Jules, but she also liked news. Fortunately, Aziraphale didn’t give much away and was just polite.

After they completed their transactions, the purchases were stored in the Bentley and the pair made their way down to the shore, the wind picking up a little and ruffling their hair. Aziraphale took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, taking in the salty fresh air, the harrowing and distant call of the gulls and the gentle rush of the waves.

“So,” he said softly, still focused on the sea in front of them.

“So,” Anthony repeated.

“What exactly happened?”

Anthony stepped up cautiously next to him, until he had a spot that was stable, and put his hands in his jacket pockets, staring out at the sea after Aziraphale. The clouds were curdling at the dark line at the horizon, promising some precipitation later. He thought, not for the last time, what it would be like to disappear over that line. Not that he believed the world to have an edge to tumble over, but the notion still struck him just when he watched the sea like this. That, and the terrifying unknown deep beneath the water.

He tightened his hands in his pockets just a little more.

"Well," he started, and twisted at his hips to look at Aziraphale at last. The wind buffeted them once more, threatening to tug them like lover's hands out into the freezing surf. "Right, yeah. So, they stopped by my place. Obviously. Gabriel's got a report on a struggle happening and wants us to give testimonies, if we're willing, though that's more local police than, you know, fucking Interpol." He rolled his eyes, scoffing, trying to play it all off. "So, dunno how you feel about that, but I told him we're out of town. He's not exactly happy about that? But after I explained, you know, Eosphoros men were after us, he seemed to relent. But as you can see?"

Anthony gestured all around them, at the streets, the skies above them.

"Nobody is coming to arrest me. Guess why." Before Aziraphale could answer with his guess, Anthony shook his head and returned his hands to his pockets. "My painting was gone. I didn't ask him about it. But he didn't say anything either. And I'm just...I just think...I know Hastur and Ligur took it. They had to. ...Right?"

“What ever do they want to do with it? Blackmail you? Now that it isn’t at its rightful place anymore, proving it to be yours would be quite the hassle. I do not understand their actions. Or…well….”

Aziraphale paused, looking out at the threatening clouds himself.

“I think we should stay here a little longer. Getting over the shock and make some plans. I think we earned a little breather; don’t you think? Let’s say we give us...er…we need a long weekend. Just to think. You know, try not to lose our heads over the matter. After that, we can try to find an arrangement with Gabriel and hope that he will never find out about your other profession.”

Aziraphale stepped a little closer and tugged a strand of brilliant red hair away from Anthony’s eyebrows.

“I won’t say a thing. You have my word.”

What was with this man!? Proper, buttoned up! Touching his hair!

Anthony didn't pull back, not an inch, but he stared wide-eyed behind his sunglasses and held his breath as Aziraphale shifted his hair. He needed to say something. He should say something! He should say something....

"Thanks," he muttered quietly. "That's. That's really appreciated. Actually. Yeah. Thanks."

Aziraphale smiled and let his hand sink down again slowly, letting his gaze roam over the grey ocean once more. To hide a blush, foremost. He suggested that they may walk a little more, since it was quite relaxing. Not too far, since it seemed like it would rain soon. Or perhaps sleet? Hell, it was getting cold enough, that might be snow on the horizon. But it was yet on the horizon, which meant they had enough time to stretch their legs a little.

Three days was a good time to let all of this sit, yes. What could go wrong in three days, together in a small cottage with one bed and one proper bathroom? Surely nothing. Surely! _Nothing!_

By the time they reached the end of the boardwalk and out to a tiny pier, the clouds were overhead and even Anthony had to admit, he had a pang in his stomach that coffee was not going to dampen anymore.

"Come on. I'll cook us a, well." Anthony shifted his sleeve out of the way to read his watch. "Okay, lunch at this point. But, hey, it'll be a tasty lunch."


	13. Chapter 13

The walk back was a little quieter, somber notes augmented by the cloud cover and by the time they pulled back into the familiar territory near the cottage, the windshield was speckled with the first touch of rain. Ah, to be lucky to have rain.

"Gonna be really good for the garden. I put in some, uh, some basil and thyme last year. Not that that’s gonna grow. But, just…some of them? They'll like this."

He grinned up at the clouds through his windshield and then glanced over at Aziraphale, pulling himself back together, feeling self-conscious about his gardening habits.

"I'll get the groceries if you can get a pot of water on to boil? Lentil soup work for you?"

Hearing about the garden, that he had yet to uncover made that warm feeling in his chest well up again. It was fitting. Just oh so fitting for someone who he wouldn’t have dreamed of liking any greenery when they had first met. Azirpahale agreed to the deal, a smile on his face all the same. Their first day on the run had been rather nice so far.

“I’m fine with everything you want to conjure, really. Now that I know how you’re cooking is, it will be hard to convince me otherwise.”

They made their way back to the cottage quickly, trying not to get too wet when the rain already started to pick up in intensity. Inside, Aziraphale got right to the stove, getting a pot of water ready and taking out a chopping board. He just opened his mouth to offer his help with chopping and washing when his hand throbbed a little.

Oh right. Bit of a handicap with that injury. Pun fully intended.

“Tell me, how can I be of help to you without too much flexing of these?” he asked, holding up sore fingers.

Anthony set everything down and started pulling out vegetable stock and supplies. He looked over his shoulder, mulling to himself. It would be a lie to say he did not consider holding Aziraphale's hands and kissing his fingertips, gently more over the bruise he could still see over his knuckles.

"Uh. Hmm. It's a really simple recipe. If you...." He glanced down again at their supplies and nodded. "Yeah, if you can...over there." He elbowed towards a tiny toaster. "Toast some of that crusty cranberry nut loaf? We got some whipped honey butter. I'll get this rolling and maybe I'll, uh, slice us up some cheese to go with the crackers to tide us over until it's ready?"

He was already putting things together, moving quick and easy. Outside, the rain battered the windows and made the small cabin feel closer, more sheltered, and he needed to flip on the rest of the lights, so they weren't just standing about in the dark.

"Also, if you don't mind? It’s an electric fireplace out there. The switch is first on the left. Don't know when this rain will let up and figured we could use the extra heat?" he asked, hoping he wasn't being too pushy. He liked being pushy. He should like being pushy to Aziraphale, but he caved to the man too often.

On the contrary, Aziraphale was glad to be of some use. He still felt like he was imposing. He got the bread out and cut it, placing it on the toaster before getting at that fire. Sure, it did not have the romantic atmosphere of a real one, but it was much easier, quicker and better to maintain. So, he puttered around Anthony, getting crackers out and placing them on a plate right beside Anthony and his neat little work station.

“Here. A little refreshment for the chef of the house,” he said with a smile and picked a buttered piece of bread, holding it in place so Anthony could just grab it. It was almost domestic. Feeling like they had done this a million times already. The realization of this only made that momentary warmth in his chest spread farther, his heart picking up its pace.

“And how long do you think will this take?”

"Should be ready in thirty min...oh."

The chop of the blade against the cutting board, for a moment steady and quick as they weren't through to dice the carrots, suddenly slowed and finally stopped. Anthony looked up at the offered piece of bread, not quite sure what Aziraphale was doing, and leaned forward to take a bite, tearing off a piece and standing back to chew it with grave appreciation. "Mm, love...." He chewed more and nodded. "That, yeah. Thank you." He licked a little spot of the honey butter off his lip and went back to cutting, assuming that was all Aziraphale needed. "Yeah, thirty minutes. Smells divine already, doesn’t it?"

It was the clear, crisp smell of the lemon to go with the carrot and onion and lentils. He loved this simple recipe and was happy to share it with his friend shortly. Perfect to have soup on a rainy afternoon.

That pause in between bites did something to the conservator. Something like a heart attack! Aziraphale cleared his throat and placed the half-eaten slice back on the plate, taking another for himself and turning around.

"Jolly good. I think I'll get a whiff of fresh air for the time being," he said, trying to not sound worked up or anything. Without waiting for an answer, he went over to the living room where he made his way out on the little patio. Thank God it was covered. Chilly and dusty, but he didn’t have to worry about the rain as he hugged himself. He took some deep breaths. He should laugh. He tried laughing! It sounded pathetic.

He sighed to himself. It was long and deep and awful before he turned about and went inside, a chill running through his bones. He had just to think back on his time at home. Channeling that repression. Yes, this should do. As he was just about to settle on the couch, his eyes wandered back to the painting that Anthony had tried to cover up. So much of his resolve, his repressive nature had cracked over the last day and a half. What’s one more thing? It wouldn't hurt to get a look, would it?

Aziraphale strode over, taking a last glance in the direction of the kitchen and turned the canvas about….

 _Jolly good_. Crowley wiggled his shoulders as he insulted Aziraphale fondly in his head and made himself laugh.

"Ponce," he told the lentils with grave affection, and began to stir the concoction. All it was missing was the large cauldron and a true wood-burning fire to set the mood, what with the small cabin, the rain outside, and all that.

Anthony tapped the wooden spoon against the side of the pot and went to collect up the bread that Aziraphale had abandoned. He picked up his slice and took another bite, lounging by the counter and enjoying himself. He did love that bread. It was a great flavor. Said so himself, out loud, with...that...pause....

Anthony looked down at the crust, turning the piece so his bite marks were facing him again and chewed thoughtfully. Before he shrugged and took another bite. Soup was almost done, so he didn't feel like abandoning it until it was ready to ladle up. He did hope Aziraphale liked it. Even considered perhaps adding chicken or ham cubes to it or something, to make it more robust, more appetizing, but he did so love this simple recipe.

There could have been a marching band rushing through the living room right now and it wouldn’t make the Aziraphale flinch. His whole focus was set on the painting before him, which was simply of a man sleeping peacefully on the very couch he had tried to spend the night on before. He was nude, bright light cutting across him like a soft downy blanket, with the hint of a smile playing along his lips. It was a simple and serene scene but the most enchanting aspect of it was the way it had been done. The lines on the face, every strand of hair. A sensuality radiated off that piece, so intense that it made the experienced conservator blush.

This was something very personal. A dear companion that Anthony had a chance to admire and cherish up close and personal, that much was clear. And he surely shouldn’t keep gawking. But it was so beautiful that Aziraphale was helplessly falling in love with Anthony’s skills even more.

This looked like a painting of a lover. The overly charming, overly brash artist seduced by his muse. Seducing his own muse in return. This cottage their little getaway. The man in the picture did not have to be a random lover; surely not with that much love that was practically radiating from it.

Aziraphale was so caught up in his thoughts, that he forgot about his surroundings and time completely stilled.

"Oi! Angel!"

Anthony twisted the knob, turning off the heat to his stove and rummaged for the nice red crockery bowls he had to serve their lunch in.

"It's ready, if you want some."

He hummed, already ladling the soup, setting them on the counters to cool, adding a thin wedge of lemon and a piece of rosemary to garnish.

"You think it's too early to have alcohol with lunch? Kind of a brunch sort've time, I suppose. We have juice!" As he was shouting things, he went towards the door to see what had preoccupied Aziraphale so thoroughly in the living room. Maybe he got lost. Or maybe the fresh air didn't agree with him. Or, worse yet, Hastur and Ligur and Prince had magically appeared and were holding him hostage with a rag and a gun to his head and he'd have to go rescue the poor bastard for the mistake of being acquainted with another poor bastard of an artist.

Or he was just looking at something. Aziraphale liked to look at things. It was about half his profession. Looking at things.

And he kept on looking. His subconscious registered the use of his pet name, but he was just entranced by all the details and the care that had been put into every stoke. The tug of his mind, trying to get his attention became more persistent, until he snapped out of his haze and looked at the kitchen in sheer panic.

He was not supposed to see that!

In a speed only a good amount of anxiety could coax out of a being like Aziraphale Fell, he flipped the canvas, took one step back and folded his arms in front of his middle. He looked out the window with the determination of someone who tried to appear as inconspicuous and innocent as possible. If he would have started to whistle, it could have been a scene right out of a 1930’s comedy performance. The fact that he was still flushed and the canvas sitting slightly crooked on the easel did not help.

Anthony cleared his throat as he came closer to Aziraphale, noting the proximity to his painting supplies. A horrifying worry he had seen something he shouldn’t.

"Yeah, uh. I mean...been calling you."

Anthony smiled, calming down when he saw the canvases turned around – he should really throw that thing out! Just...couldn't get himself to part with it. If only a _certain someone_ had taken it with him when he – 

"Lunch? Soups done. Don't want it to get cold. You're not allergic to anything, are you?" Anthony chuckled and guided Aziraphale back into the kitchen, watching him carefully. He looked out of sorts. "Pomegranates, by chance? You know what, hell, I'll get you water. You should sit. You don't look too good. Maybe too long out in the rain."

“Dear Lord, no. I’m fine. Tickety-boo!” Aziraphale said hastily.

“TIckty-boo,” Anthony repeated quietly with a not-so-hidden smile.

It wasn’t only the thrill of almost getting caught that made Aziraphale’s heart pound away in his chest, but mostly his imagination running wild with how that painting could have come to be. Aziraphale tried to distract himself with lunch. Yes, food was perfect!

“The day I’m allergic to anything food related, I might jump right into an open grave, I tell you. Thank you for cooking dear, this smells divine!”

He sat down, taking in the scent of the steaming soup, paired with the prattle of rain outside and the cozy warmth of the cottage. This was nice and calming.

“You said something about alcohol, right? How about a glass of wine? Just a glass, mind you...”

Anthony set the bowl in front of him and kept his gaze fixed on Aziraphale, his smile dipping slightly. He had to break his gaze when he reached up again and grabbed a wine bottle and a glass, putting them out, and sat down, still studying his friend.

"You turned the painting around," Anthony announced in a flat tone at last.

Aziraphale had just took the wine bottle to open it before he made a sound like he had just swallowed his own tongue. Miraculously, the bottle did not drop to the floor.

“I— how do you-? I wouldn’t, really, it was just—” he sputtered, clinging to the wine. He sighed in the end and dropped his gaze in shame. “I’m sorry. You know, it’s hard to withstand the temptation of taking a look. It’s like you would leave me in a room with an ancient tome, telling me to not touch it. Or a tart o’ chocolate with a sign ‘do not eat’...”

Anthony had to chuckle, of course, mostly because it seemed so right that Aziraphale might snoop and, really, he didn't want the poor conservator to squirm too much.

"I suppose not."

Aziraphale's gluttonous nature was...far too endearing, actually. Anthony slid the cork opener over to Aziraphale as a peace offering and sat back again.

"You have questions about it?" That was only asked as a question as a formality. Anthony wasn't blind to Aziraphale's wriggling and stuttering and Anthony was a perfect master at tripping over his own words. But he could read the other, only as well as their growing fondness allowed, and he did not want Aziraphale to feel too uncomfortable or bottled up in the cottage. They'd be spending days together. He wanted to make it as painless as possible.

Except he should have just thrown out that damn painting. Or at least chucked it at Damien after he left to go be with Matthew. Or Luke. Was it John? He couldn't remember, because he had done his damndest to block the bastard on all platforms and attempt to scrub their history clean off the earth.

Except. Ugh, damn the painting.

Aziraphale accepted the opener, but still avoided Anthony’s face. He started to slowly screw the corkscrew in while going through some options as how to phrase his questions.

“He must have been someone special,” Aziraphale finally settled on, getting the cork out with a dull plop and pouring Anthony some wine. “And it’s outright gorgeous. You should not hide your personal pieces away like this. Well...I suppose this one is a little too personal…but I won’t apologize for my curiosity. I’m glad I saw it.”

Now he felt safe enough to look up again, after pouring some wine for himself. He raised the glass and studied the other’s face, still a little flushed from getting caught.

“Whoever he was,” Aziraphale continued, perhaps just to fill the silence. “He was very handsome.”

"He's a piece of shit." Anthony laughed just as Aziraphale held up his glass and watched his conservator friend bluster. It made Anthony smile, even if it was a bit of a dick move. "But he was really damn pretty, yeah. Got him into all sorts of trouble throughout his life, I’m sure. Pretty, pretty sonovabitch."

Another chuckle, peppered throughout his speech, and Anthony finally held out his glass to Aziraphale as well, going so far as to clink their glasses together.

"I miss doing my own stuff, too. And I am ambidextrous. I can't believe you figured that out from the bloody brushstrokes. I agonized over those, you know." It was like ripping off a plaster. They might as well joke about it or they were going to combust. "Still do. Can't believe...I paid so much for those paints, too! Even crushed a few pigments myself to get it just right. And spotted by a brilliant bastard right off the bat."

A fond grin spread over Aziraphale’s lips as his companion started laughing.

“I’ve always been known to be a stickler for details. It’s not a very endearing trait as a child, I can tell you. I would say that I’m just very observant. Others might say I’m just nosy, but what can I do?”

He chuckled himself and took another sip before he hummed and raised the glass for a proper toast. Well, as proper as they could manage. They’d already sampled their drinks. But, informally or no, it was still worth it.

“To your ambitious work of forgery and my stubborn obsession with details. We would not have met, otherwise. And now, I think we should not neglect your meal any longer.” They glanced at the soup and Anthony flinched visibly at forgetting it, so Aziraphale did his best to soothe him. “Truly, it smells _scrumptious_.”

"And it's no good cold," Anthony said with a crisp nod, and clinked their glasses together. Again.

He sipped down another taste of wine before he lounged back and started in on the meal. It was going far better than he anticipated.

"So, not to ignore little Aziraphale being stubborn about the details, but, what did Now-Aziraphale think of the village? I can probably take us down to the beach behind us when the weather clears up again. Might be really fucking cold, but if you think your coat will be good enough, it’s really, uh…breathtaking."

It was another olive branch, as he had noted the way Aziraphale's eyes had lit up when he saw the sea and he wanted to give him a chance to enjoy and drink it all in, as much as possible. Maybe he wanted to dote on the man. It wasn't a crime! And Anthony should know, because he had committed several of them.

Aziraphale had busied himself with the soup, showing his appreciation in his typical sounds of approval and joy. He just looked up from a new spoonful as Anthony made his offer.

“Oh, the village is darling, really. So tranquil and picturesque,” he said fondly. His eyes widened in joy with the prospect of getting another visit to the beach. Much like a child that was told he could visit the toy store later. “Really? That would be wonderful! Ah, I always held some fondness for the sea, you should know. I remember going to Brighton quite often when I was a child. Later to Brittany in the summer...”

His eyes clouded a little as he remembered. He shook his head with a chuckle and licked up his spoon again.

“I think I was right about you.”

“About what?” Anthony asked, his arm draped behind the back of his chair. He smiled so easily now. It was such a warm sight, Aziraphale couldn’t help but pause to fawn over it every now again.

“You. You are a brilliant artist—”

“My ego thanks you.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale pursed his lips fondly. “But you’re also quite the seducer. Going after your muses.” At that, Anthony’s face fell, if a moment, but he picked himself back up again and Aziraphale soldiered on. “I should think you are the sort that every mother warns their daughters about. Well, in this case they should have warned their sons.”

"And daughters. Twice." Anthony blew on his spoon, his eyes hidden behind his shades, firmly fixed on Aziraphale's face. "But I think those were flukes."

The conservator raised one well-groomed eyebrow. “I see. Twice the scoundrel.”

Anthony had to laugh again, as it came so easily between them, and fetched a piece of toast to dunk into his soup.

"I mean, no. Generally, I was not one who seduced their muses. Sorry to disappoint." _Always a chance to break your own rule again. Aziraphale looks.... No, stop it._ "It's too much work and I don't want to bother the models. The few times I get into a figure drawing class, it's not even all that sexy. Don't judge me, Angel, but it's far simpler to just use grindr and don't call them back the next day." He grinned again and would have looked just right with a set of fangs to pinch his lip as he did so. "Not a lot of time to sketch them when we both just want to take our clothes off, don't you think?"

He took another spoon full and joined in with a light laugh of his own.

“Ah, there goes my romanticized imagination. But I know what you mean with the figure classes. Not much sexual tension there.” _Contrary to us when...._ “I personally prefer the more classic approach but see where that got me. Actually, nowhere in the past years...”

He sighed and looked out the small kitchen window, watching the cold raindrops running down the glass as he enclosed the spoon with his lips once more. Maybe he shouldn’t start to elaborate on the topic of his own sexual long haul. No, he definitely shouldn’t start dwelling on this, not with Anthony and him stuck in this little cottage, out in a town and environment that was screaming cheesy romantic novel at him. That slightly animalistic grin from Anthony was not helping with that. At. All.

“So...” he cleared his throat. “This is something like your little...love nest?”

Years? Did Aziraphale imply he had not had any...anyone...in _years_?

Anthony's smile softened as he found himself nearly reaching out to take Aziraphale's hand. Nearly. His mind screamed it, but, luckily, the muscles did not move without explicit permission.

"This old thing?" Anthony looked around and sighed whimsically. He'd had half his soup and toast and decided he was going to fill himself the rest of the way on the wine. "Just a retreat. That pretty bastard in the painting? He liked it well enough, but I can tell he got stir crazy and would have preferred something bigger. I dunno. I like it."

“His loss. I think it’s perfect as it is.”

Aziraphale shrugged and dedicated himself to the soup again, taking some of the bread as well. He would not waste this very fine meal, there was plenty of space for both lunch and wine. He was silent, apart from his usual good-meal-sounds, until he had swallowed the last of the bread.

“I would move in here in an instant. It’s quiet, the town isn’t too far off and you have the sea right behind your yard. It’s a perfect little retreat, as you say. I had thought about something similar quite often... surely, my interior would look different, but I thinks that’s a good size and all, even for two.”

Aziraphale was just taking a sip from his glass as he recognized how this might sound. He chocked a little and tried to right his statement back around.

“I mean, if one would like to live with somebody else here. Or have them over, you see. I-I think things could be arranged to fit for two people, in the long term. Ah...”

Another hasty sip to shut himself up should help. Maybe this was the reason why he didn’t date these days. The fear of coming off too desperate was just too much. But now, he was just doing that. Great.

“The soup is wonderful dear, thank you.”

Anthony just watched him, the little floundering, the blustering. He nodded his agreement, at the state of the cabin and its size and, yes, even at the soup. Then he took a long drink, savoring, stilling himself, and swallowed before he announced around a tight throat, "Bed's plenty big for two, y'know. Proved that."

“Oh.”

It was soft and merely a breath.

“Yes. You’re quite right about that...”

And with that, the discussion about their sleeping arrangement was settled. Without ever officially saying so, because neither of them would dare to, of course. Instead, Aziraphale finished his lunch and offered a discussion about the advances of being ambidextrous and how he could distinguish that from the other handedness.

The dishes were cleaned together after this, with the rest of their wine in their respective glasses. It was much like it had been the first time Anthony had cooked for the both of them. But there was a lightheartedness now, despite their situation. A nice push and pull, not too much but there, enough to notice.

These would be some interesting days indeed.


	14. Chapter 14

Back in London, a very displeased Beez Prince was sitting in the office of a very persistent Inspector John Gabriel. They had been certain the police would ask after the whereabouts of the two art experts sooner or later. And Beez had provided the usual fruitless information. But this Gabriel was a stickler. The kind of rabid dog who bit your calves and never let go.

To make certain that the inspector knew how pleased they were to be here, Beez was chewing an awful lot of bubble gum. It was pink, smelled of chemically combined esters, good for bubbles and awful on shoe soles and in hair. They were demonstrating the elasticity of this brand even now, blowing a bubble almost as big as their face, eyes fixed on Gabriel while their feet were swung up onto the corner of his desk.

The bubble popped and they chewed loudly before answering.

“As I already told you, we don’t know what happened. They were both there when we got the paintings. Maybe they ran off together, or whatever...”

Gabriel would have pinched the bridge of his nose if he could afford to, but it seemed very important that he didn’t demonstrate how remarkably improper he found Prince. That it would merely egg them on to something even more obnoxious. And yet, he was oddly thrilled they should visit him and disrespect literally everything about his station.

Tuck that little nugget back into his pocket, that's what he was going to do with that. Forget about it and never address it again.

"Well," Jon started, leaning forward to turn the manila folder around on his desk and tossing open the flap. That insipid bubble was in the way, so he waited for them to get along with popping it and gather the deflated wad back up into their mouth. "You see, I would believe your word, but it appears that two of your associates were seen leaving the premise of the gallery after our men left."

Of course he considered Aziraphale and Anthony "his men." They were on the job for him. Ergo, his men.

The folder held grainy stills from the traffic cams all around the block, at least two capturing the bleary faces of Hastur and Ligur slinking away with what must be the wrapped paintings between them.

Another bubble, another long moment before it popped. One could think it sounded angry. Prince maintained a carefully cultivated level of annoyance but internally they were fuming.

What an amateur mistake! Not looking out for any cameras! Going out the front door! They just had to play it down though, get some more information about the whereabouts of Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell. They _needed_ to bring them back.

“The quality is hardly good enough to ensure that,” Beez said, sitting back again. “And I guess it’s already rendered and shit. But if you must know, they just forgot one of the paintings and went back later. No one was present and the door was open, so they helped themselves. Yes, maybe there’s an argument for trespassing, but nothing more. The deal was sealed, and they just took what was Mr. Eosphoros’ in the first place.”

Another bubble. Another pop. They drummed their nails and glanced haphazardly to the wall.

It was a good excuse and, knowing Eosphoros, he had the lawyers available to get this all thrown out if they attempted to take it to court. He sighed and covered the folder again. It was almost unnecessary, but he didn't need to give Beez a chance to study the images longer and find anything potentially useful about it.

"Yes. Suppose that could be," he answered, watching them. It was hard to tell, but he could guess they were agitated. He leaned back and rested his hands on the table. "But you must know we'll be keeping an eye on you. I think that’s fair.”

“Fair.” They scoffed and scraped one of their shoes on his desk. “Yeah. Fair.”

“Fair that I’m telling you, even. That’s a bonus. Here’s another,” said Gabriel and leaned forward again. “Your guys? They were sloppy enough to leave blood at the scene. Granted, it was their own, so, that must say something about your team. And mine."

They stopped with their disinterested attitude at once, stilling completely for a moment. Prince righted themselves, swinging their legs down in one graceful arc – oh, was that a peek of fishnets on their ankles? Not that Gabriel noticed…no, course not.

“Have you seen all the paint cans standing around? One could easily tumble over them, crack their head. A right workplace hazard, if you ask me,” they said with a lazy grin. Slowly, another bubble was formed and popped, right in from of Gabriel’s face. “You’re a very thorough guy, I can see that. Haven’t had the ‘pleasure’ of working with one of your kind for some time...”

They pulled back and sprawled in their chair, taking a piece of paper out of their pocket and spitting their into the center, wrapping it.

“Is that all for today Inszzpector?”

 _Hnnng_ , there it was again, that strange lisp. It only appeared when they were very upset, or just very excited. It really had been quite a minute since there had been a law enforcement that was cunning and eager enough to try and catch them. Sure, it was a futile attempt, but the chase was fun.

“I guess you haven’t heard anything from your men yet. Still swallowed up by earth?”

"Seems like it." He smiled, watching their movements thoroughly, the way they took care of their gum. Hell, the way they talked.

It was kinda cute.

"Which leads me to believe they've either lost their minds and have run off to find fame and fortune and love or something. Or they're just trying to avoid you. And me."

Or they had perished in the three days they were gone, but Gabriel had his doubts. Crowley kept him abreast of the situation. He should give them a call after this meeting just to check up, but it was important to get Prince out of the office first. So, he reached from his chair and snagged a waist bin, holding it out to them so they could throw their paper and gum out and hopefully be on their way.

Prince eyed the bin and threw their little package in there, with an accuracy one achieves when practicing bin basketball. They stretched out again before grabbing the base of their seat to push themselves forward. A strange way to stand up, but they had been sprawling over the chair in a very strange and slumped way, so it seemed like they were trying to get their muscles back in order.

“Guess we’ll be hearing from you soon,” they said, with a crooked and lazy smile. Surely, he wouldn’t give up so easily. “Good luck then, Inspector Gabriel. I’m sure you’ll need it. Don’t even bother.” They waved him to stay seated when he tried to get up. “I’ll find the way out myself.”

They turned around and raised a lazy hand as a goodbye before scuffing out of his office.

When they were outside the building and back in the car – black Mercedes, tinted windows, proper car for these sorts of dealings – they reached out their hand to the driver, who immediately handed them a small device. Prince clocked a button and saw how green bars flick up on the display. There was a connection now. Perfect. The gum had been a ruse while they stuck a little adhesive device under the lip of Gabriel’s desk.

“Guess we’ll be the fly on his wall now,” they said with a grin, motioning the driver to get away from the building.

Gabriel had a window that faced the street and did not miss an opportunity to watch Prince get into their car - back seat with a driver, of course they did - nor for them to pull away. He had the plate memorized simply on habit and turned back to his desk, slowly taking a seat.

And picked up his phone off the cradle, dialing the now familiar number.

Three rings later, it was Anthony who finally picked up. He knew they had disappeared to one of his properties, and while Aziraphale seemed more put together, more closely aligned to the creed Jon Gabriel followed, he just...happened to pick Anthony's number.

"...Hello?" Gabriel asked after a lengthy pause. He knew Anthony had picked up....

"Yeah, hi, Jon." There he was!

Anthony, who had seen GABRIEL up on the screen of his phone, just shook his head and rolled his eyes, waving at Aziraphale to come closer and put the interpol Officer on speaker phone. "What's up?"

"Yes, uh, just had a meeting with Prince. Denied everything, of course, but we're still trying to, you know, get them," Jon answered.

Anthony looked at Aziraphale and frowned.

"Nothing seems to stick. Yet. Were you sure any of Lucien's paintings were fakes or anything? Can you give me, like, anything?"

Aziraphale had just walked over from his small reading nest he’d but together on the corner of the couch, glasses still perched on his nose. He frowned as well, looking at the screen.

“If we were sure,” Aziraphale started with a sharp tone, puffing up like a disgruntled pigeon. “Of course I am sure!”

“Hello, Mr. Fell.

“Yes, hello,” Aziraphale answered simply because of manners. “There were two fakes, Jon. I haven’t been able to send you a report because we….” Anthony quickly shook his head and cut a line across his throat. Was that a threat? Either way, Aziraphale changed tactics. “Er. Anyways. What was I…two! Two of them are fakes. One is ‘The Massacre of the Innocent’ and another a unnamed painting, sold as ‘newly discovered, not yet known piece’ in the catalogue.”

The conservator was quite vexed about the fact that his skill was still questioned. It was evident on his face when he looked at Anthony, head shaking in disbelief.

“Right.” Jon spoke slowly, clearly writing something down. “And that was all of them?”

“Not quite. The third one piece is most assuredly a Rubens. It’s ‘Aurora Abducting Cephalus’, last seen in Berlin around three and a half years ago. Seems like there’s no official report about it being stolen, so things must have been handled behind the scenes, I suppose. If there’s enough money or another desired piece involved, curators can get tempted, I assure you....”

He shuffled a little closer to Anthony. Mostly because it would be easier to talk and listen this way but partly because Aziraphale was feeling on edge about what Prince might have given away about the forgeries they had taken with them.

“So, if things still are very unclear over in London, we ought to stay out, shouldn’t we?”

Gabriel sighed audibly, rubbing his head.

"Look, I know three days isn't a lot. I want you back in London as much as you probably do. But...I mean, since we know they tried to physically attack you?"

"Successfully physically attack us, sure," Anthony said, giving Aziraphale a sympathetic look. Not even for the hand and the fight, but because he understood the pride Aziraphale had in his work and knew that Gabriel's cavalier attitude was upsetting him. "Yes."

"If you come back here, we could ensure some surveillance on your homes. A patrol or something?"

"No dice," said Anthony.

Gabriel sighed again. That did seem to be the attitude the last time he suggested it. He could order them, but it didn't seem to have gone that far. "I mean, it's safer than a random cottage in the middle of nowhere."

"Town's literally ten minutes down the road. It's not middle of nowhere," Anthony answered. Again. They'd just gone round and round on this and he was getting tired of being pushed on the matter. "Look, if Prince and their goons don't know we're out here? Then that sounds a safer bet to me."

"I absolutely agree with Anthony here. It's just the sensible thing to do at the given moment. And trust me, I would love to see that my workshop is still as I left it."

He really did miss his shop and his flat, the overall privacy he had there. But. To be quite honest, the past three days hadn't been bad either. Actually, he enjoyed it. It was somewhat domestic and against all odd's they somehow settled on a kind of routine already. Even the sleeping arrangement wasn't as bad as Aziraphale had worried. Sure, there had been that incident where he had been spooning Anthony's slender form but since he was up earlier the rest of the time and Anthony had not been aware of that slip. At least, that was what Aziraphale hoped to be the case.

Anthony kept on sleeping in and Aziraphale got up, made some coffee and tea and prepared breakfast. The smell of it lured the artist down, sooner or later, and they enjoyed it together, taking trips to town. Aziraphale had already found a darling little bookshop.

As for the rising tension for any sort of intimacy...well, it surely was still present. Sometimes, when washing up together, getting ready for bed or that once when there had been no fresh towels in the bath, Aziraphale could feel it. He tried to tamp it down with always getting into the shower after Anthony left his bedroom, so he had enough time to get that edge off without worrying about being heard too much. He relieved himself quickly, with a fist pressed to his mouth to stay quiet, washing away the evidence of his masturbatory efforts. It made him broil with shame quickly and then that, too, was washed away and he could face the rest of the day with his companion.

"We appreciate your offer, but let's just keep in contact and recap as soon as there's more information that could secure our health," said Aziraphale in as clear and as firm a tone as he could manage.

"Well...if you have service and are feeling charitable and bored...see if you can try and find anything about how Eosphoros got that Rubens. We'll do what we can here and keep in touch."

Anthony puppeted a mouthy Gabriel next to them, still rolling his eyes.

"Yes, great. Ciao!" And Anthony hung up the phone.

He finally really looked at Aziraphale. Truly, the three days had been something of a miraculous time. There were no huge fights or giant awkward moments. Little slip ups here and there but, if Anthony were honest with himself, it had been...sort've perfect? Calm. Relaxing. Quaint.

Well, other than the fact he wanted to shag Aziraphale seven ways to Sunday, but he had some class about it and avoided too much touching during their bedtime routine. Could have sworn he once felt Aziraphale wrapped around him early in the morning.... But it was pretty easy to chalk that up to his imagination.

"So," Anthony said seriously. "Stuck here with me a little longer. You going to be okay with that?"

"Of course I will! Don't be silly."

It just came out without a second thought. Aziraphale was more than okay with this, really. If it wasn’t the drastic measures of going underground to save their lives, this could actually be a nice little vacation. An _extended_ vacation, now!

“Good,” Anthony said, too relieved to hide it.

"Good,” Aziraphale repeated. He glanced back at his side of the couch. “You know, now that I’ve been disturbed from my reading, mind a walk on the beach?"

"Yeah?" Anthony brightened again and glanced out the window. There were patches of blue out there and the temperatures had become mild again. "Yeah. Course I would."

He headed for the back door that went through his garden and held it open, bowing playfully. "After you."

Aziraphale laughed brightly at the. He made a short bow at Anthony, who had his arms hugged up around his chest in a dark charcoal-coloured jumper.

"You should wear that," Aziraphale said, handing him his sharp tailored coat. "It's still quite rough out there and you are a nesh. No point in denying it."

Aziraphale got into his cream coat as well but didn't even bother to close it. Aziraphale was mostly very warm. Unseasonably so.

The sky looked beautiful, with the sun breaking through the clouds, creating spotlights that would look right at home in some grand depiction from the Book of Revelations. That rough line of the English sea, paired with the occasional whip of a cold wind had a certain romance to it that Aziraphale preferred over any Caribbean island.

They had followed down the paver path, then out the back of the garden and to a gentle slope that dipped down to the beach itself. Aziraphale had been right, Anthony needed the coat and had buttoned his own up to the neck as they walked, the wind whipping at his hair. He watched his feet, hopping gingerly over the rougher terrain until it all sort've evened back out and got nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Aziraphale.

"You think, we're still safe here?" Aziraphale asked after a while.

"I should think," Anthony answered, smiling at his shoes. "I mean, as much of a hard time as I give to Gabriel? We are kinda out in the middle of nowhere. And it's not like I was advertising this place to all my friends at parties and all. It's a getaway spot. That's the point. To get away."

He looked up finally at Aziraphale, who was bright against the dark saltwater backdrop, his hair practically glowing with the occasional beams of sunlight overhead. For the briefest moments, he swallowed his tongue, unable to formulate a single thought than how captivating his friend looked just then.

Anthony opened his mouth to say something when the toe of his of his loafer slipped between rocks and he tumbled awkwardly, flying his hands out to keep his balance, and completely ruining his cool exterior.

"Oh, dear!"

Noticing his friend's tumble, Aziraphale turned around and caught him halfway through. And surely the universe had a word or two about it, since a gust of wind blew up from behind, catching Anthony's long copper strands and billowing in his hair while Aziraphale looked at him. He swallowed and blushed a little, managing a smile.

"Mind how you go, dear."

"Er I...I mean...y-yeah."

 _Fuck_!

Anthony got himself standing upright, giving one last squeeze to Aziraphale's arm - now there was some muscle...firm...and so warm - and cleared his throat against the back of his hand, staring back out onto the ocean.

"Yeah. Yeah, no, thank you. Got it." He rolled his shoulders, with no less than three distinct pops from his spine, and sighed, settling back into place. "Uh. Oh."

He bent over quickly and plucked out a particularly smooth completely black rock, save for the very thin vein of white through the center, and put it in his pocket, patting it, and walked ahead to get to the usual end of their walk, which was a slightly rundown pier from a neighbor's property that they had neglected to give any upkeep to whatsoever. It made sense. It was the edge of their property and unless they went on semi romantic walks down the beach regularly, they'd probably forgotten about it.

Ah, it was one of those moments again. When it would be the perfect cue to kiss or say something utterly stupid and romantic. And now, Anthony was even picking up a pretty pebble. For what purpose, Aziraphale could only guess, but it seemed to mean something! Maybe Aziraphale should address it? He couldn't be the only one feeling it, this thing going on between them. But what if he was wrong? What if it were just the current circumstances that were pushing these feelings forward?

Before he could act or drift into the spiral of what-if's any deeper, they were greeted by another pair that was taking a walk on the beach. They looked like a young couple, maybe in their early 30's, with the woman enthusiastically waving at them.

"Hello, gentlemen," she chimed, holding on to the arm of her partner. "Didn’t think we’d see neighbors out!”

“It’s a nice day,” the man said, holding her as well. They had the bubbly air of newlyweds. “D’you two get in on one of the Airbnb’s nearby?”

Aziraphale blinked in confusion.

“Air…ah.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Sorry, no.”

Anthony lifted his chin, pulling himself up to his full height at the approach of others by habit, even elongating his neck again, which helped show off the line of his black collar.

"Yeah, different company," Anthony said, feeling it easier to lie than to say he owned the place. Again, less people that could track them, the better. He eyed them, stepping back up to Aziraphale, his hands deep in his own pockets to avoid the cold. And to avoid touching Aziraphale needlessly. Even though he wanted to. Even though his brain was buzzing and a little hot at the top with how much he wanted to. He didn't even reach up to remove the strand of hair now flapping into his face, just moved his chin to get it out of the way. "You know. Quiet season right now." He smiled, though he hoped it showed off how little he wanted to continue any friendly banter. "You two staying here long?"

It seemed that, at least the young lady was oblivious to those signs of 'not amenable for conversation now', chatting away happily.

"Oh, private huh? We're here for our anniversary, actually. Weather is a bit rough, but it's perfect to snuggle in front of the fireplace, isn't it Ralph?" she said with a broad smile, squeezing her partner’s arm. He returned the smile and just nodded.

"And romantic walks on the beach are nice as well, as the both of you might agree, for sure!"

Aziraphale made a choked sound and blinked nervously, heat cropping up his collar.

"I- we. I mean....yes. Quite romantic, indeed."

"Speaking of, we need to go make sure the fire is all set," Anthony said, leaning slightly over Aziraphale, his cheek just hovering over the white hair. "Mind where you step round here." He shrugged up his coat and turned, rolling his shoulder in a way that he hoped Aziraphale would follow him, and headed back down the beach. Giving the couple the literal cold shoulder. Not entirely fair to them, considering he was nice enough to the locals. They'd just potentially seen him stumble in front of his crus...conservator, and he never was chummy with the folks who rented out the areas simply because it was a rotating cast of people and he just couldn't be bothered.

Aziraphale, still a little baffled, looked between Anthony and the pair before smiling at them nervously and saying goodbye. He caught up to his friend, a tad bit flushed.

"What is it with people assuming that we're a couple? Happened in town as well, as I was purchasing those books." Azirpahle sighed, but smiled soon after. "A fire sounds rather nice, however."

"Mm."

Anthony hunched over again, slowing his step as they walked, contemplating both where he stepped and what Aziraphale said. His thumb ran quickly over the rock, again and again.

"They're just nosy," Anthony said and nodded to himself, even licking his lips. "Does it, uh...does it bother you? If people...assume? Such? I mean, it doesn't matter. Shouldn't matter at all what people think. Y'know, forget it."

He dropped the stone in his pocket again and hopped a little ahead, over a craggy area, looking down at the uneven stones. Hazardous. He should get someone to put a path down, but then how to maintain it with the sea there. Better yet, Anthony held out his hand to help Aziraphale up onto sturdy land.

There he was standing with slightly billowing hair in his sharp black coat, reaching out to help Aziraphale over the uneven path like a real gentleman. After a walk on the beach. Aziraphale could feel his heart beat faster and a desire he had thought was gone with his youth made itself known.

Aziraphale took the hand, holding onto cold fingertips that were a contrast to his very warm skin. He made a big step, looking up at Anthony with wide eyes for a moment before he caught himself.

“Thank you. And I... I don’t think I mind that, no.”

“Mind—”

“If people thought we were a couple.”

“Oh.” Anthony could pray that the cold made his face a little red, to hide his blush better. And then, realizing perhaps a little too long had gone on between that, he rushed in, “Y-Yeah. Same.”

They let the wind pick at them a bit longer, the threat of being blown away not nearly as imminent as one might hope. Eventually it cooled again between them and they made their way back up to the cottage. Aziraphale remained quiet but kept on walking close to the tall dark figure beside him. What a duo, really. So utterly different just from their looks but, much more connected than most would ever assume.

When they got back in, Aziraphale busied himself back in the kitchen to get the kettle going and make them some tea to help warm back up. He knew that he should say something, anything. So, he settled on the first thing that came to his slightly racing mind.

“You know, if we’re staying here for longer, I could get some ingredients and make scones. I did brag a little about baking.”

"Yeah?"

Anthony was over by the switch for the fire, flicking it on and hugging his shoulders tightly. It wasn't that cold in the cabin, but the change in temperatures was just a reminder that he was cold and now he was shivering. A moment more in front of the fire and he'd be right as rain.

Ugh, rain. Hopefully it didn't... _and_ there were the first patters on the glass. Like clockwork. Perfect.

Well, it was going to be perfectly cozy inside. Anthony thawed and rubbed his arms, watching the fire and sneaking very quick glances over at Aziraphale. His sunglasses were fogged up, but he didn't bother to take them off, just waiting.

"Well, we could go give it a go. Run to the store, I mean. Weather's changed. Don't know if you, y'know, if you wanted it right now? Which we can!"

One look out the window and then back at Anthony was all he needed to know about it.

“No, I think we don’t need to rush this. I have a book to read and of course someone for nice conversation. How about a cup of tea? And cocoa for me.”

It wasn’t too often that Aziraphale had the chance to be lazy and cozy all day. It was a nice change of pace, even more so with the company. The weather was just inviting them to sit on the couch, doing nothing. But first, their drinks! The kettle was nearly ready and Aziraphale was gently poking through the cupboards.

“What would you prefer?”

Anthony really should go into the kitchen and help. But it seemed safer to offer some distance then. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up, remembering the random pebble and fetching it out to fiddle with before he went to the couch and sat on what had now become "his" side.

"Wouldn't even be upset for a cup of cocoa to go with yours," he called out, sinking into the cushions so he was angled very low in the seat. Was he being rude? Aziraphale had that whole hang up on manners.... "You want any help in there?"

“I’m fine, thank you dear!” Aziraphale called back, placing the tea back to where it belonged and pulled out the cocoa instead. It wasn’t one of those instant concoctions, oh no. It was rich cocoa, not too sweet.

After he had prepared both drinks, he came back to the living room, placing the mugs on the small coffee table and taking seat at his side, still propped up with cushions and a blanket to make a nice reading nook. As soon as he was sitting, Aziraphale took his mug, blowing at the top and warming his hands.

“So, what are you up to?”

Not napping, that's what!

Anthony opened his eyes quickly and looked back up at Aziraphale, shifting slowly. The cocoa – god, they had to get the fancy stuff too. Totally worth it, obviously, but it was sort've funny how fussy Aziraphale was about the stuff – smelled damn good. That thick, almost buttery, cream-clotted smell tempered with really good dark chocolate. Worth every cent.

"Just thinking," Anthony muttered and sat up with a deep breath. "Might start working on a painting. Feeling...it's a good time for it."

He had not been planning that. But it was a good time for it. A good distraction.

Anthony slapped his thighs and stood up, setting the pebble down on the table next to the mug. Alright, so now he made that declaration, might as well get started. He faltered slightly before he took the mug, muttered a quiet yet sincere "thank you," and went to his corner of the living room, casually pulling out a few stretcher bars and the sheets of folded canvas. God damn that cocoa was good.

A soft _oh_ was Aziraphale’s answer and he watched Anthony setting things up over the rim of his mug. Surely, he wouldn’t like to be watched doing so all the time, but it would be hard not to take a peek every so often. Maybe he should offer to retreat to the bedroom, just out of politeness.

“Are you feeling alright with my presence here while doing so? I would just read but I can go upstairs if it’s too irritating.” It was an honest offer. Many artists had their quirks and special work methods. Azirpahale liked to listen to classics while shuffling around at his workbench alone, for example.

"What?" Anthony just plopped some wood glue down and looked between his naked easel. "Nah, you're fine. Anyways, just the boring bits right now. Stretch the canvas, prime it."

He rummaged around in the little wooden pie safe once more and came up with a shiny but heavy looking nail gun.

"You don't, uh...you don't mind? Just need to tack the canvas down. I'll be really quick about it." He waved the tool in his hand, purposefully pointing upwards. "Give you a warning before I start too."

All of it necessary to get the canvas ready and all of it absolutely just busy work while stubbornly staying in the same room as Aziraphale without being obvious. It had been a really nice three days and now, because of the beach and that stupid couple, Anthony was far too aware about things. Things, damnit!

"It's fine. Nail away," Aziraphale said with a smile and made himself comfortable to read. He was used to hammering and the typical sounds that came along with preparing a canvas.

Actually, he was kind of excited. The fact that Anthony felt safe and relaxed enough to paint around him was already heartwarming but to be able to catch a glimpse of him working? That was priceless. Aziraphale had wished to see the forger at work the first time he had inspected the Van Dyck thoroughly and now he was able to, even on an original piece!

To not be too obvious however, the conservator decided to bury his nose in the book first. This needed a delicate and well thought out approach, similar to the work of a wild-life photographer. He had to be careful to not startle the rare specimen of Antonius-artisticus in its usual habitat. Aziraphale almost giggled from his own thought but covered it with a short cough. One must maintain some semblance of decorum, which just meant these would be a few trying hours where he attempted _not_ to make an ass out of himself.

After the frame was built up, Crowley was perched much like a raven on a branch, hunched over, foot hooked around the rung, and measuring the frame to make sure it was even and squared off.

The slick scrape of his remarkably sharp scissors dragged through the canvas cloth, with enough to just fold over the frame and nail it down. And he did. He hopped off the stool, crouched down on the floor, stretching canvas out tight. He only looked up at Aziraphale briefly and was certain he had caught him looking back. It made sense. Anthony was making a commotion.

"Gonna...yeah." He held up the nail gun once more and shook it before he went about nailing canvas to the frame. He moved quickly, using tiny nails to tack down the corners, and held it up with a genuine, pleased grin, only self-conscious about the audience when he glanced around and saw Aziraphale reading.

Anthony was sure he was being a nuisance. He avoided humming so he wouldn't be a disruption, forgetting that thought as soon as he painted gesso on in layers, getting lost in the quiet of his work.

Under normal circumstances, alone in his flat or workshop, Azirpahale would have enjoyed silence to get some reading done. Sometimes, he felt in the mood of listening to some music but he got lost in stories or topics so deep that he forgot the record was playing sometimes. Now, the shuffling and sounds that Anthony was making were a comfort, a nice background noise that was telling him everything was alright. Safe.

The humming, which did pick up despite itself, did not disturb Aziraphale at all. He interrupted his reading from time to time to chance a glance over to the artist at work. He seemed to be in a flow, not aware he was studied while sketching, the way he mixed the colors and changed between his hands. His elegant hands, with those long fingers...

No, no, Aziraphale was drifting off again!

To be not too obvious, Aziraphale tried to get back to reading but he was drawn in by Anthony working every so often. At one point, he caught himself humming along the other’s melody, without even noticing it. The cocoa had long gone cold (or had been drained from the cup, in Aziraphale’s case) and Aziraphale got up after what seemed to be several hours to collect Anthony’s mug and wander off into the kitchen. He came back with a small plate of fruit and a bottle of water, which he set down on a stool nearby without saying a word. He stood there though, looking at the painting.

The slow build of grays, soft along the seam there that had become the horizon, bloomed up to subtle blues and greens and purple. The ocean itself was yet unfinished, the sea foam a detail to be added in later, but inklings of it roughed out on what was clearly the shoreline they had walked earlier that day.

Anthony was biting his tongue as he carefully dragged his brush across the background clouds, filling them out more, and was about to snag more from the pallet now crooked against his hip before he looked up and startled into a blush.

"Was I humming?" he asked, clearly dazed, worried he had been too loud and not really concerned yet about what the painting was becoming. Some homage to the birth of Venus or something, if he kept at it. Likely.

“Yes, you were.”

“Oh.”

“And I really liked it.” Azirpahale took off the reading, smiling at Anthony.

“It looks fantastic already. Just captured the feeling of the sea so perfectly, I would say. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help but take a look now and then. Now that I have the opportunity to see you work...” He said it with the same admiration he had used when talking about the unknown forger, back then. No need to tone it down now. “I know how it is with getting lost in the work flow. Maybe you should stretch a little. And don’t forget to drink...”

Azirapahle patted Anthony’s back affectionately and looked at the painting again, taking the scenery in. It surely was inspired by their walk earlier and that information made a warmth bloom in his chest.

The touch was as nice as the feeling flooding through Crowley's chest. He leaned back into it for a moment, rounding his shoulders and holding his hands out, before he hopped up and checked his watch.

"Yeah, should have a...oh." He spotted the water and fruit as he was stretching, laughing through it, and tugged his shirt back down over his navel when he was done. "That's perfect, thanks. What do you say we take this little shindig to the kitchen? Peel some carrots for the roast tonight?"

It was just about time for dinner and they could get back to their usual routine. Anthony...really liked their routine. He felt a little selfish in that he was happy they got more time together and wanted both a warm meal and then a chance to retire to the couch, satiated, satisfied. Even press in a little closer and ask Aziraphale about his book....

The ever-observant eyes of the conservator spotted something just above the waistband of Anthony’s jeans. They were sitting quite low and he was pretty sure that there had been something on the skin that wasn’t any fabric. He tugged that information away for later and smiled up at his friend again, nodding.

“It’s a good time to get started. After you,” he said and flourished him to lead the way.

Anthony wasn’t the only one who liked this. Aziraphale had never thought to be the domestic kind of guy. More like a hermit, maybe, but it had never occurred to him that living together with someone could be this satisfying. Maybe it was because they didn’t need to talk all the time. Not like he didn’t like their conversations; the opposite was the fact! But they could also sit side by side for several hours, just like now, enjoying the other’s presence while doing their own thing but never being alone.

The last time he had felt just the smallest desire for something similar, had been in his last relationship, and he had already established how that went down.

Instead of getting the cutting boards out, the first thing Aziraphale got was the wine and two glasses, plus a water for Anthony to hydrate a little more. Just after that been done, he got the essentials out so they could go to work in the small space.

After some time, the small discovery he had just made was tugging on Aziraphale’s curiosity. He tried to address this as smooth and inconspicuously as possible.

“You know, that couple this afternoon...I just realized the man had some tattoos on his hand. Looked interesting. Have you ever participated in that trend? I mean, body modification is seen as an art form of itself and all that.”

"Did he?"

Anthony was busy dressing the roast. He wouldn't eat it, but it was an earnest pleasure to watch Aziraphale enjoy it. Far too satisfying.

"Body modifications," Anthony repeated back and sighed out a laugh, turning around to leave the roast to soak up its layer of spices. He dusted his hands together and reached up to tug on his earlobe. "Course. Got this."

He was referring to the small earring, of course, but was still looking down, his chin tucked into his chest. It was a bit bold, but he needed to...see. How Aziraphale might react.

Anthony's hand slowly trailed down and he tugged on the bottom of his shirt, lifting higher on the left, angling his sharp hip forward, and showed off the top of the black tattoo. The scales were done like lace with a delicate touch, looping over his hip. He'd have to undo his trousers to show off the rest, even where it looped like a sash over his back, taking up all the valuable space for a tramp stamp. The tail and the head were...somewhere. Below the hemline of his pants.

"And this one so far," he said, watching Aziraphale, doing his best to move slow, talk normal. Breathe.

Apart from his not so very subtle and smooth conversation starter, Aziraphale was pleased as it seemed that Anthony was rising to the bait. He regretted it a moment later when the well-tailored shirt was tugged up, skin was revealed and... dear Jesus, Mary and Joseph he had not reckoned with that.

It looked indeed very artful, well made. The coil was draped very perfectly, accentuating that sharp hipbone and ducking back into the slim jeans, with the tempting whisper of “come and see how it looks underneath.” Aziraphale’s eyes were wide and very focused in that part of flashed skin. He licked his lower lip unconsciously to wet it. His mind provided him with plenty of images. Tracing the pattern with his fingers, wandering over the warm flesh to map out the design, see where it began and ended, how the skin tasted....

It was very warm all of a sudden and his clothes felt like they had shrunk. And was he blushing? He had no idea, since he was feeling flushed just everywhere. He blinked several times, remembering that he should say something. Anything.

“That, ah- looks very good from what I can see here.”

_Nice, not much stammering, go on like this._

“A snake? I guess some people already made a joke or two about its placement? Given the size of that part it must be a huge one, going further, errr...down...I figured...the snake….” The last part was getting quieter and more breathy. His control was slipping, his mind providing reeling and begging to touch those trousers, move them out of the way.

Before he could embarrass himself more with his words, Aziraphale did so by cutting into his own finger. Apparently, his body had just kept on doing its kitchen work as his mind had wandered off into the amorous parts. He inhaled sharply, the knife cluttering one the table.

“Oh. Fuck.“

Anthony absolutely, 100%, meant to tease him further. He would have said thing about the size of the piece, and all. If he wanted a closer inspection, maybe. It was thrilling to be looked at like that again and he....

He dropped his shirt and came closer.

"Hold up. Let me get you....run it under water," he said quickly, gently holding Aziraphale's wrist and tugging him to the sink before he dashed off for the box of plasters he hoped he had left in the medicine cabinet. He went quick, finding half a dozen left, and fished two out to see how Aziraphale was doing by the sink with his finger.

He was muttering something under his breath. Actually, he was cursing. How dumb and embarrassing all this was, cutting himself because he kept on starring at the piece of a hip tattoo. He was properly blushed now, half of it resulting from the anger he felt. It had been that spark again. He had felt it, right there! And now, his index finger was bleeding because his mind and body had gone separate ways for too long.

“It’s not that deep, just the tip. Thank you.”

He turned around and grabbed a tea towel, pressing it against the injured digit to dry it off and stop the bleeding. Typical, so, so typical to ruin a moment like this.

"Ah. Yes, that's – it’s alright." Anthony swallowed his comment about getting blood on the towel and circled around him like a moon goes around a planet. He frowned, not unhappy, just worried, and reached again. "I'm sure it's fine. Just let me see."

With a little fussing, Aziraphale gave in and presented his hand.

“It isn’t the first time that I cut my finger, I can assure you,” he huffed. He dared to look up at Anthony who was standing quite close now, bandaging his finger.

Anthony just grinned, raising his eyebrows in an _I'm sure_ sort've gesture while he fussed over the finger. He carefully wrapped the plaster, adjusting the wings, and flattened it all out. Once it was covered, while he still had Aziraphale's hand, he leaned forward and kissed above the now covered nail.

"To make it feel better," he explained and let go, returning his hands to the counter behind him and gripping it tightly.

Aziraphale's breath hitched, his mouth slightly parted. It was like watching this unfold in slow motion, this little affectionate gesture. That's what it was. Just some lighthearted fun for sure, acting like a mother or nan that was bandaging a child.

These thoughts were not reaching Aziraphale at all right now. He was not thinking _anything_ at the given moment, at all. The only thing he felt was the loss of those lips on his finger and the strong desire to feel them with his own. He just stood there, utterly gob smacked by that little gesture and starring for a while. And then, his body took over, moving on its own accord.

Aziraphale made a step forward – not much more needed in the small room – and was right up in Anthony's personal space, crowding him against the counter. His right and unaffected hand came up to cup the Anthony’s cheek and his lips followed soon after, pressed onto the other's.

_What is happening._

Anthony gripped the counter tighter when Aziraphale's eyes opened, afraid he had overstepped. He could have just wrapped it and be done with it, but he couldn't leave well enough alone. They had a peaceful existence going on. And he fucked it all up.

_What is happening??_

And when Aziraphale reached out to touch his face, drawing closer, Anthony's breath caught in his throat. He was sure he could crush granite with his grip now. Probably. Definitely.

_What is-_

Aziraphale kissed him. Aziraphale. Kissed him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters to make up for the long break.

For a brief moment there seemed to be a literal spark between them, and Anthony stiffened. Then sank into it, drawing his hand up to mirror Aziraphale's, cupping his cheek, sliding further into his tuft of soft white hair, angling for a better, deeper kiss.

A second more and he may have started to overthink again. But to both their benefit, Anthony’s actions delayed that process and Aziraphale made a small sound of approval as the kiss was deepened. He shifted a little as well and was just overwhelmed by the sensation of those slightly chapped lips, Anthony’s taste, paired with the wine they just shared, his intense scent, paint and fire and ocean and something warm. So close.

His other hand came up as well, sliding into the auburn hair and cupping the back of Anthony’s head. After what felt like an eternity, Aziraphale’s chest tightened, so he drew back reluctantly, only so much as to disconnect their mouths, taking a deep breath.

His eyes were still closed. He did not dare to open them and spoil the moment yet again. He would just get some air and return to what they’d just been doing, so they wouldn’t have to talk about this. What was it that Elvis had phrased so perfectly? Ah right, _A little less conversation, a little more action, please_. Yes, that should be the motto.

When Aziraphale broke first, Anthony instantly licked his bottom lip, stealing the taste of Aziraphale as well. The slight salt, the wine, a nibble from a carrot earlier maybe?

He looked so damn breathtaking, even with his eyes closed, and Anthony only lifted his hand off to hook his sunglasses, remove them swiftly, and tossed them onto the counter. Nothing was on to burn behind him, so he wrapped up Aziraphale with far more purpose, needing a repeat study what had just transpired.

He ran his hand smoothly across Aziraphale's jaw, the other arm wrapping him around the waist and settling at one of the loops of his silly straight-legged khakis, drawing him in tightly, and returned to his mouth. Of course a kiss, lips together, was the simplest, but Anthony was such a greedy creature. He licked against Aziraphale's lips, moaning softly for him to part, and drew his hand away from Aziraphale's cheek to grab one of Aziraphale's hands and lace their fingers tightly at the nape of Anthony's neck.

Aziraphale answered with a moan himself, granting Anthony’s tongue access and shuddering as soon as he felt the hot and slippery organ against his own. He eagerly tasted the other, the hand that was still placed on the sharp cheekbone wandering down, fisting into the fabric of dark shirt to anchor himself and to get Anthony closer, impossibly closer.

This was actually happening. Not another dream or wishful thinking. They actually stuck together, neither of them given any sign of discomfort or wanting this to stop. The opposite was evident. It seemed like both of them didn’t want this to ever stop and the fact that Anthony was reacting so eagerly, with so much passion, made Aziraphale’s knees go weak, threatening to give in any moment. It made his hand squeeze Anthony’s, another moan spilling from his throat, that was swallowed right away by the artist’s hungry kisses.

They shifted and shuffled around, as one does while getting a good snog, letting some of the pots that Anthony had left on the counter clang when the latter brushed them. Aziraphale pulled back once more but only to breath out, “couch?” against Anthony’s lips. To make up for the lost connection of their lips, he kissed the corner of the other’s mouth instead while waiting for an answer.

"Closer than the bed," Anthony reasoned, somehow now with Aziraphale's back to the wall instead of his own. Dinner might be on hold. It's not like they would starve.

The mention of the bed let Aziraphale shudder, but Anthony was right, it was too far for their need.

Anthony smiled into the next kiss and tugged Aziraphale a bit too eagerly, apologies made with pecks to his cheek and neck as they danced their awkward, feverish dance from tiny kitchen out to the sitting room, still heavy with the scent of paint, though they had managed to finally crack a window earlier despite the rain, and then over to the couch.

Anthony guided Aziraphale to sit, practically crawling up into his lap to avoid being too far away or to give any impression he did not want a second of this. The dam was broken, and he wanted his fill.

Aziraphale took a moment to admire that piece of art that was straddling him right now. There was something animalistic about it, in the way Anthony was perched, the hunger in his eyes, which only added to Anthony’s whole appeal. But there wasn’t much time to just stare. He had done so over the course of months and now it was time for some action. _Thank you, Elvis._

Aziraphale grabbed one hip, his other hand sliding to the back of Anthony’s head, pulling him down into another hungry kiss. But this wasn’t close enough. The hand on the hip migrated further, pressing the lithe body against his roundness, so their abdomens were flush against another. It ripped another sound out of his chest, somewhere between a growl and a moan. Jesus, he was already half hard from this. It really had been far too long since Aziraphle had enjoyed some physical contact.

Anthony was happily pulled in closer, rolling his hips in right against Aziraphale's, a preview of what they both could have. It was like they were teenagers discovering what bodies could do. What having someone else to touch was like.

Then Anthony pulled back, an ebb of a wave, only to make room for those long, deft fingers to start plucking away at Aziraphale's favored waistcoat, slipping the buttons out and pushing the crushed corduroy out of the way and smoothing his palms out flat on slightly sweat-damp cotton of his shirt.

"I thought that might help," he whispered against Aziraphale's temple. "Mm, just having my hands on you.... Though, I want...I hope.... Can I open your shirt too?"

He had feared that talking might make this awkward. Apparently, it was quite nice and Aziraphale had always lived by the credo that consent was key.

“By all means, please do. I might combust otherwise.”

As long as he would do this without the chance of ripping anything, Aziraphale was more than fine with the idea of getting undressed. His hands had started to roam in the meantime, exploring the expanse of Anthony’s back and coming down to his small bum, cupping both cheeks with his hands. It felt good, a nice weight and quite muscular. It made the blonde bite his lower lip, since this could indicate that such muscles were used for things like _thrusting_. Good Lord. His sturdy and well-manicured hands twitched in anticipation and he squeezed a little, weighing the jeans-clad-flesh as if he was checking out some grapefruits on the market.

The roaming hands and squeeze made Anthony shiver, giggling so gently into Aziraphale's soft blond hair. He couldn't help it, and leaned back.

"I appreciate...you didn’t wear the, uh, the bowtie. Today." Anthony finished his sentence with another eager, probing kiss, tapering off with a happy little whimper when he knew he had to break apart to look down at those small plastic buttons. He worked fast, of course, but he had a sense with how careful Aziraphale was with these old clothes, he didn't just tear them off. Though the thought of gripping handfuls and rending them down the center had its appeal.

Anthony bucked up against Aziraphale, a little friction coupled with the teeth of his jeans that made him hiss happily as his fingers flew by Aziraphale's navel. He yanked up the shirt tails and finished it off, finally, and parted Aziraphale's shirt like curtains. He dragged his fingertips across an expanse of skin he wanted to taste and bite and draw and paint and hold. He even got to do the last, palming one of Aziraphale's pecs. With a healthy grove of wiry hair. Beautiful. Beautiful.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

"I have to admit I feel rather- ah - naked without it. Not that it matters now..."

Aziraphale melted into the kiss, chasing Anthony's mouth as he moved. The feeling of his deft fingers opening his shirt with such ease was a nice promise for more but first, Aziraphale was faced with the task of enduring such a compliment.

The press of their growing interests was almost forgotten as Anthony felt him up, whispering those words with something like reverence. Aziraphale actually blushed but he managed to fix his steel eyes upon Anthony’s marvelous face. Sure, he knew he can be attractive, but seeing as they’re almost fifty and that portrait of Anthony’s long-lost lover had looked nothing like him, Aziraphale’s mind whirled with the worry that he was inadequate.

"See who's talking," Aziraphale whispered, leaning up to mouth along Anthony's sharp jaw. "You look like you stepped out of a DaVinci, and I haven't seen you partly naked yet." Aziraphale practically purred and nipped Anthony’s earlobe. "As for me, I would say I'm more, well...Rubenesque."

Aziraphale had to chuckle while he pressed into Anthony's touch. It had been so long, why not enjoy the feeling of being wanted. Desired.

"But I have it on good authority that you know how to handle that. Right?"

"Handle it. Cherish it." Anthony stretched his neck for Aziraphale to kiss at more, more, to take anything he wanted and asked for. "To desire it most."

He kept his hands flat on Aziraphale's stomach and chest, roaming slow and firm, to touch everything without accidentally tickling. Not yet. Definitely not yet.

"Let me help you get these off the rest of the way? Then maybe I can be inspired to take something off for you?"

Aziraphale pulled back his hands from where they had still kneaded the taut bum, letting them glide over Anthony's hips and thighs. He still nibbled on the long neck. It was actually easier to slip out of his shirt this way. He only stopped when hitting Anthony’s collar.

"How about you let me uncover what lies underneath this layer. I'm an expert at that..."

He really should cut short on those innuendos regarding their jobs, but he felt lightheaded and playful for once and Anthony didn't seem to mind.

Oh, he would inspect every inch of the pale skin, would trace that tattoo with fingers and mouth and tongue, wherever it would coil around the slender body. Aziraphale trembled from the anticipation, sinking his teeth softly into the tendon on the stretched neck.

Another swipe of his tongue, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth and Anthony practically gasped.

"Fair is fair is fair, Angel," he answered quickly.

Anthony was reluctant to sit back, given how soft and warm Aziraphale was, but he was safe on Aziraphale's lap and had those hands still on his body. So he reached up and grabbed the back of his shirt, shedding it over the top of his head, a little revealing show of his abdomen with the tattoo on display, and then ribs and chest and when he was free of it, his hair loose behind his naked back. He tossed the shirt. Who needed them? They certainly did not. Instead, he came back in, elbows tucked in, and kissed Aziraphale back into the cushion of the couch.

Each new expanse of skin was hungrily taken in, eyes following the journey of the shirt. Aziraphale gasped softly when all was revealed, one hand settling right under Anthony's throat, wandering over the exposed chest, down to the flat stomach….

And then he was kissed again, by this work of art. His very own Galatea of sorts, though he was sure to never be able to create something that beautiful.

As he sank down, he pulled Anthony closer, pulling him against his overheated flesh, so they both could feel the other's skin on their own. It ripped another needy noise out of him, his hands wandering restlessly over Anthony’s back, one sliding into the long hair, gripping for purchase.

"Anthony..."

"Mmhmm. 'm still here, Angel."

Anthony curled in, greedily touching and stealing heat as he panted hungrily against Aziraphale's throat. To his collarbones. To his chest.

They kept rocking together, a gentle back and forth, unable to sit still for a moment of this intoxicating adventure. Anthony was a creature of desire, burning up in the moment, welding their bodies together, as much as could be possible. And, honestly, the grinding down just ignited him further. He was doomed to think he was going to slow down.

Well, if it were just a one-man show. That might be true. But Aziraphale's firm hands ground him to reality and though Anthony's hands gently brushed and gripped and pulled, he found himself returning with elbows tucked in to Aziraphale's chest. Like he might cover the conservator's heart and read his secret desires like Braille.

"'s not too much, is it?" Anthony whispered to Aziraphale's cheek, kissing back up towards his mouth and pecking the corner of his lips as he waited for an answer.

“Not enough,“ Aziraphale breathed before engaging the other in a heated kiss again. They each rolled their hips, Aziraphale meeting the serpentine motion, feeling both strain against the confinement of their clothing. Both of Aziraphale’s hands made their way down the long torso, brushing along the waistband of the jeans, light like a feather. A moment more of this torture and they might finish in their pants and Aziraphale had some pride on that matter. He nearly picked Anthony up to get his hips to still long enough that he could get to the fly of his jeans.

“May I...?”

"Pleasssse." Anthony hissed into Aziraphale's hair, the request slipping through him like lightning.

Anthony simply had to hide there in Aziraphale's hair, as one does when they're finally with someone they've been quietly wanking to for too long to be ignored, who hits all your buttons, and who has their delicate fingers, their fucking perfectly manicured and ridiculously soft fingers right on your nearly naked hips.

But he sat back to stare down and angled his hips to make it easier for Aziraphale. He held him around his neck, a loose hold that could break at a thought.

Aziraphale kept his eyes on Anthony’s face while his fingers deftly opened the button, pinching the zipper between the tips of his thumb and index finger to slowly pull it down. The sound echoed in Aziraphale’s ears until he finally got to the end. He slid his hands back over the narrow hips and got lost for a second as he traced the sharp edge of bones waiting there for him, before dipping them into the trousers, now finally enough space there to let his hands grab the taut flesh of the artists rump once more.

He hummed in appreciation, kneading, until he remembered that there was something lying underneath the thick fabric that needed thorough investigation. With a little too much ease, he lifted Anthony so that Anthony could rest on his knees before sliding the jeans slowly over round cheeks and sharp edges, eyes going wider with every black spot of ink and trail of red hair that was uncovered.

“Gorgeous....”

With a bright, sort've fluttery laugh, Anthony shifted enough to help Aziraphale push the trousers over his rear, even as he was moved to be more "comfortable." He wanted to show off. He enjoyed showing himself off, with such an eager partner, but as Aziraphale, who had apparently showed his hand at being an ass-man, began to look and feel and grip his cheeks, Anthony tugged his hands in neatly again and cupped Aziraphale's face, kissing him with a stubborn smile.

Oh, but it felt good to be touched.

Anthony lifted his hips up more and the tight black fabric if his jeans uncovered not only more of his tattoo, but the smooth lines of his underpants, a sporty red jockstrap that wouldn't show too many lines in his tight trousers.

Anthony licked his lips and sat back into Aziraphale's hands. He looked down and helped push the left side of the trousers down his thigh a little more, his pinky tracing the neck of the snake, which slipped down his inner thigh, the tattooed head flashing fangs towards his inner thigh. The tail presumably mirrored around the right thigh, though it was sort've funny that the tip of said tail pointed upwards, a too obvious arrow. Or, when he squeezed his legs together, the snake would look like it was biting itself.

"You're gorgeous," Anthony crooned, carding back Aziraphale's hair. "You'll let me get these trousers off you too?"

“I think we can come to the compromise that we admire each other an awful lot.” Aziraphale laughed despite himself. “And yes, I feel trapped in here. But to do so...”

Aziraphale grinned and pressed Anthony against himself, while hoisting him up a little more and reversing their positions. Now, the artist was laying with his back on the couch and Aziraphale could write an essay about the way the flaming hair was draped over the dark cushions. No time for that now. He busied himself with another deep kiss and when he pulled back, he grabbed the jeans to finally get them completely off, admiring the artwork on the taut thighs for a moment longer. Really, so many distractions now. What brought him back to the task at hand was the visible bulge in the red pants.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows climbed up in interest and he shuffled closer between the other’s legs, taking one of Anthony’s hands and placed them on his own groin, pressing a little.

“I think you wanted to get something off?”

That was...unexpected.

Anthony stared up, blinking, his face glowing redder by the second. He had to close his eyes and breathe out a little laugh, just to settle himself. _Okay, big boy_ , he thought, before he got himself in order.

Anthony brushed his hands at the fly of Aziraphale's pants. He began to open them, taking the same care, but after the button was undone, he took his time to palm Aziraphale through the fabric again. He gripped him, outlining him, and arched his back up to moan directly into Aziraphale's ear, following it with a nip along the shell and down to his earlobe.

"Let's see, Angel," he purred, unzipping further and pushing Aziraphale's trousers down, even stretching enough to palm Aziraphale's cheeks and give them a complimentary squeeze.

Aziraphale tried to stifle a needy sound himself but it was a futile attempt, since it was audible even between his closed lips. The squeeze was ruining his attempts completely as he gasped, pressing himself into the contact.

Aziraphale’s choice of undergarments was a much classier one, with white briefs which were already showing a slightly damp spot. Well, who could blame him? Nobody would be unaffected by this; not when you dreamed about this for several weeks. He shuffled a bit around to shimmy the trousers down to his knees. An equally fair trail of hair was starting to map down from the navel into the briefs, promising another set of curls sitting right underneath the cotton. Aziraphale breathed hard, eyes hooded and full of want and desire.

It was too beautiful a sight. The damp spot like icing on a cake. Anthony moaned his appreciation, clicking his tongue again, and pushed his fingers against Aziraphale's chest insistently until he was sitting up, drawing his knees up, and crowded back over Aziraphale. Any delineation they had earlier on which side belonged to whom was blurred immediately. It was currently theirs.

"Hey." Anthony smiled, his face hot, his body a taught wire that was prepared to snap. "Gorgeous. Call first dibs." He kissed Aziraphale again, shorter than the others and quirked up with a smile. "Handjob? Blowjob? You comfortable with either?"

Only able to answer with a smile, Aziraphale chased the lips that were withdrawn too soon for his taste. It had not been a problem to be on his back again, absolutely not. And now he even got options!

“Surprise me,” he said with a grin. One arm was draped over his head, the other reached out, his hand brushing the hair out of Anthony’s face on the right side. He would have loved to just enjoy the moment, laying back and just let things happen but a very important question itched the back of his mind. It had been some time since he had to ask this.

“Anthony, do you have some condoms, by any chance? I mean, if you like that better. On the other hand, I’m checked, everything is fine and that...”

This might be a little mood killer, but they didn’t have the mind to think about that earlier. Now, that things weren’t too urgent a matter anymore it was essential to get that out.

"Oh.” Anthony nuzzled Aziraphale’s cheek, making certain he was comfortable while kneeling over top him now. “I’m clean. Got checked after my last ‘sleepover,’" Anthony answered with a cheeky grin, getting settled between Aziraphale's legs. "Couple months back. But, uh...."

The comment about the last person Anthony had slept with did not so much stir jealousy that Anthony had sex with someone else but just general envy for the fact that he was able to have some lighthearted fun in between, while Aziraphale had starved himself on that matter for so long now. Damn his standards.

“If you’re alright with it?” Anthony frowned as he looked around the living room. Maybe some condoms in the bathroom? “I can che—”

“I’m alright,” Aziraphale said, grabbing Anthony’s arm before he hopped off to look. “Please?”

Well, that wasn't an immediate concern. Now that he was kneeling on the couch, Anthony tugged on the waistband and pulled down, letting Aziraphale spring forth, already mouthwatering. Yes, he needed his mouth on that immediately.

It was sturdy like the rest of him, nestled in light blond curls, neatly trimmed, mind you. You never knew when someone would undress you again, like on this couch, for example.

“I hope you’re pleased with what’s served today.”

"This looks like a very fine meal you've delivered," Anthony answered, his voice heavy already, his eyes dark and focused. He dragged his chewed-down nails up Aziraphale's thighs to grip him around the base and leaned down for his first taste. Like lapping ice-cream up from a cone threatening to dribble down your fingers.

Already he could tell he was going to be damn pleased with the girth and wrapped up Aziraphale's head with his lips, just barely starting to inch down. His eyes rolled back as he closed them, moaning like Aziraphale did over his food, a slight payback for the delicious suffering Anthony had to endure at that sexual audio onslaught. He dragged his hand to the base and thumbed up the raphe, sinking his lips down until his bottom lip just touched the tip of his thumb.

What a vision. What a feeling. Aziraphale’s breathing picked up at the first contact of Anthony’s nails and it was almost too much when those lips went around him. Aziraphale shuddered from the vibration and the sound alone, arching his back up already. There was a punched-out tone and then some soft moans bloomed from his throat.

This felt so much better than he remembered. Gladly, Anthony was still in shape and knew exactly what he was doing. Aziraphale tried to keep his eyes open, watch the other work on him, but when he was taking into the hilt he actually cried out, falling back onto the couch and grabbing a cushion beside him to stifle his noises and burry his face in it. His cock was twitching in the wet heat, threatening to melt every moment.

His other hand was still in Anthony’s long hair, tugging on it in bliss.

“F- good God, yes!”

Had to admit, Anthony always liked a hair puller.

Since it was damn near impossible to smile, Anthony pulled off, ensuring the obvious little pop at the tip, then returning once more for a messy kiss over the head, tonguing up the slit.

Poor man was shaking apart under him. It had been too long. Anthony briefly considered teaching Aziraphale about Grindr, again, but, no, damnit. They were enjoying each other. This was his to have today! Damn the consequences for later!

"Someone's shy," Anthony growled, looking quite pleased with himself. "Show us your face, Angel. How 'm I s'posed to watch you if you keep hiding under that pillow?"

The plush thighs bracketing Anthony’s face were trembling and the cushion only did so much to stifle all the needy whines and mewling. Dear someone, he was almost over sensitive right now. But what that skillful artist told did not go unnoticed and Aziraphale didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of taking him apart like a blushing virgin right away. He took some shuddering breaths and slowly rolled his head up, so he was able to look at Anthony. Right there, between his thighs. Cock in hand.

Aziraphale bit his lip.

“It’s just...been some time. I’ll get used to it in a second,” he said, a little defiant. He was flushed down his chest and panting but he still tried to retain some dignity. “I have to admit, your mouth seems to be as skillful as your hands.”

"Careful. I'm told I have an impossible ego."

Anthony grinned and opened his mouth to breathe across Aziraphale's cock, just to watch him twitch further.

He had to shift a little, stretching his back out in a long plane, resting his elbows on Aziraphale's thigh – damn the body, his wrist was going to twinge and he'd like some more time taking this beautiful man apart.

"Just, y'know, let me know if you need anything." He smiled softer, simply admiring, and then his eyebrows jumped up playfully. "Also I swallow."

And he sank back down, greedy, greedy thing he was, his hand guiding him as he sank back down until those musky golden curls were tickling his nose.

“Oh? Tha- Oh Fuck”

There it flew out the window, his dignity. With no chance for a clever retort, Aziraphale was swept under by the undertow of pleasure. He did not mind the sounds he was making anymore – practically keening anyways, wailing away – while his whole body tensed up, his back arched and both hands were holding on for dear life in Anthony’s hair.

He would never hear the end of it, he was sure. But right now, there was only the sensation of being swallowed down so expertly and he couldn’t help but bucking his hips, breathing erratically. It was almost too much. He could feel that molten tingle down his spine, that eruption threatening so soon, so he bit his lip to hold little longer. He didn’t want this to be over yet.

“Yes, god, Anthony. Yes!” was all he could get out coherently now.

At first, sure, it was a little funny how we sensitive Aziraphale was. They weren't young. Anthony rarely had the stamina for more than one good orgasm a night, which was why he worked on whomever agreed to have him in their bed first, the idiots.

But, after stretching his jaw to swallow him, relaxing his throat so he didn't gag on any errant jab or over eager thrust, Anthony felt a warmth blossom in his chest. He didn't mind whatever he could get out of Aziraphale, physical or otherwise. He wanted to give. He wanted to have Aziraphale tip over in his mouth and release all his inhibitions, to feel satisfied by Anthony's ministrations. He wanted this man to experience pleasure and know he could have it again and again if he so asked.

Anthony finally stopped looking up to watch Aziraphale squirm and moan. He closed his eyes, bobbing his head with greater purpose, more reverence, moaning softer but sweeter around him.

The change of pace gave Aziraphale a chance to breathe and his body relaxed slowly into the softer but still eager rhythm. He sighed in relief, the hands loosening their death grip a little.

This was nice, sensual. Sure, a certain amount of hunger was still in Anthony's movements but nothing too urgent and overwhelming. Aziraphale let his thighs fall apart a little more and he dared to take a look again.

"So gorgeous. Ah- please keep that up. You feel incredible, better than I, mhhh, imagined."

The function of speaking might have returned to him but thinking was still an impossible task. So, everything that came to his mind was immediately delivered, without thinking about the consequences.

Aziraphale could feel himself getting closer now but it wasn't like running towards that edge, it was a steady and softer build up now, that let him melt into the couch underneath.

"I'm... close..."

The best he could do was a slightly more purposeful head-bob, a little nod while felating this gorgeous fellow. Anthony griped him with both hands to help and hallowed his cheeks, ready to take Aziraphale's orgasm and swallow him down through all of it.

He shifted again, his knees scooting in closer, directly under Aziraphale's thighs, and sort've wriggled his butt in the same motion.

_Pull my hair. Shout. Let go for yourself. You're so fucking hot right now and I want everything._

If he could have said it, he would have babbled it back to Aziraphale. As it was, he just had to convey his thoughts through his mouth and hoped Aziraphale enjoyed his message.

Throughout all his motions, Aziraphale’s moaning climbed steadily some octaves and his thighs slowly started tensing up, as the rest of his body did. With a tug and pull on Anthony’s hair he finally came, mewling and his lower body trembling. The feeling of spilling so deep in that hot mouth was so erotic and nice that he wouldn’t have been surprised to be hard again with after.

Until he was certain every drop was gone, Anthony stayed directly on Aziraphale. His eyes were closed, not screwed shut but just soft, truly dazed, gulping and swallowing and then just licking, the salty bitterness coating his tongue, until he finally mouthed his way to the tip and kissed him again. He licked Aziraphale again and came off completely when he was spent, soft in Anthony's mouth, then his hand. Anthony transferred himself to nuzzle tight into Aziraphale's thigh, moaning quietly as he kissed and then nipped the tender skin there.

That. Was. Perfect. Aziraphale's rushed babbling, the little nonsense he managed to throw out during his peak and the hair pulling and just…. Shit, Anthony was dizzy with his affections he had for this ridiculous, fussy, wonderful conservator!

Who was sighing contently, only making a small noise when feeling that nip. It didn’t hurt, felt very good actually but he was a little over sensitive now. Drunk on the afterglow.

This was a hundred times better than coming down from an orgasm you inflicted yourself. Aziraphale felt warm and fuzzy and perfectly spent for once. And the sight down his body, that dreamy look on Anthony’s face while resting on his thigh was something entirely else that made his chest feel warm and tight. He started to fondle him, slowly coming back to himself.

“That was... I don’t know if I have words. But I think I have to kiss you, if you don’t mind...”

Anthony crawled back up and straddled Aziraphale. Any reach Aziraphale had gained was diminished once more as Anthony held Aziraphale's face and kissed him back down to the cushion. He nodded as he did so, his last-minute agreement that, of course, how this had started it should also end with more kisses. He squeezed his thighs together around Aziraphale - that little snake bite from his tattoo pressing against Aziraphale's skin - and moaned happy sounds. And only pulled back to pepper Aziraphale's cheeks.

"You are so hot," he finally said, licking his lips. "I have to tell you. I'll never be able to watch you eat another slice of cake without needing exactly this, though. Ruined me for cake, Angel."

Anthony laughed and kissed him again before Aziraphale could protest, and again, and once more, before he pulled back to lick his lips, savoring every taste.

What else could he do but melt into such eager affections. Aziraphale slung his arms around Anthony, humming into the kiss, not minding the taste of himself there at all. Of course, he had already frowned and was ready to reply to that accusation when he was silenced once more. There were worse ways to be interrupted for sure. When Anthony pulled back at last, Aziraphale opened his eyes, blinking to get his eyesight straight again.

“If it was your plan to leave me speechless, it nearly worked,” said Aziraphale, still a little breathless. He was still smiling, of course, and cupped one of the sharp cheeks, brushing his thumb along the angle.

“Thank you. I can only return the compliment really, even if I risk fueling that ego a little too much. But what is it about me and cakes...?”

It felt nice, being pressed so close together, enjoying each other’s warmth and the friction of skin on skin in the afterglow. But there was still a very interesting piece of art to be examined and Aziraphale could feel the artist’s erection pressing against his groin. He might be a sensualist but that didn’t mean that he was taking without giving something in return. And oh, how he wanted to pay that smug bastard back.

“And what about you, dearest...?”

"Yeah, you want another?" Anthony grinned, sharp and mischievous, while he walked his fingers down Aziraphale's chest. He rolled his hips again, at the hiss from Aziraphale's overstimulation. It wasn't exactly cruel. It was very funny and, worst of all, it was still incredibly hot. "Or can I stay up here? Mm? You want to help? Watch? We have nothing but options." He leaned down again and almost kissed him, then paused. "We have fewer options. I doubt we have any lube." Then his eyes glinted again. "We'll get some when we get your baking supplies?"

"Added it to the list," Aziraphale answered with a grin. His hands were now wandering down the other's sides, stroking his thighs when he got down to them. His thumbs were drawing circles on the inside, inching slowly upwards.

"If we ever make it out of this cottage again. I, myself, am not willing to let you go so easily, now that I finally have you here."

The thumbs stroked along the hemline of the briefs, a promise of getting under there.

"You looked after me so kindly, I would love to return the favor. I can lend you a hand. I can also inspect that wonderful artwork between your legs with the same dedication I offered your works. Or..." Aziraphale kissed Anthony and pulled his lower lip between his teeth before pulling back. "You can scoot up here and make yourself comfortable. Many options indeed. I'm up for every mischief, dear boy."

At the "list" statement, Anthony laughed against Aziraphale again, quite pleased with that.

And then...that they might be together...after this? Anthony's smile vanished.

The more Aziraphale spoke the hotter the tips of Anthony's ears went, his face soon bright red. He hunched over, shivering slightly, feeling very warm all over, and scooted up closer where Aziraphale had indicated. His smug exterior was demolished by the simple sweet ideas, then furthermore by Aziraphale's admission for "mischief."

"Right," Anthony said, and had to clear his throat, staring at Aziraphale's tummy. The one he was sitting just about on now. The one his now seemingly stupid red underpants were pressed against, the spreading damp spot so obvious. Christ, his back was hot too. Was he blushing all the way down to his navel? Anthony sat up a little and looked down, touching his hand to his blushing chest, his stomach. Fuck, get it together, man. "Right," Anthony repeated and snorted a laugh, still avoiding eye contact. "You're a real devil there. You're...mischief. Ha."

He was going to combust.

No, no, he was going to kiss Aziraphale and lift his hips up, thumbing over his waistband, and guide Aziraphale to touch him. Grab his hand, where it was already on his hips, and help him push his pants down. And he did just that.

A little triumphant wiggle could not be suppressed as his attempt at flustering the other had been accomplished. Now they were even, but that was suddenly forgotten as he was kissed again, and his hands guided to get off those last barrier of fabric. He did as asked, giving that rump another squeeze while he was at it.

Curiosity got the better of him, however and he broke the kiss to take a look of what he had just revealed now.

"Oh hello..."

"Yes, say 'hello.'"

Anthony arched himself to show off, the nice thatch of dark red hair curly down towards his cock, built just like the rest of him. Long and thin, blushing at the head. He stroked it out over Aziraphale's pale tummy and let it bounce back against his own.

He was feeling much less skull on fire and more, _touch me touch me touch me_. Anthony bit the tip of his tongue between his lips, his jock strap now hanging by the elastic off his ankle, otherwise completely naked with a completely naked but be-socked Aziraphale. Felt bloody perfect, actually, when he leaned in, rubbing himself against the conservator.

"Just a show, Angel? Or are you participating? You said...you said options, y'know."

"Incorrigible show off, that's what you are," he said teasingly. This was not a museum. He was not here just to observe, but to interact, and Aziraphale reached for the cock, taking it in hand, feeling it's weight and heat. He moaned softly and started a test stroke. "God, look at you. No wonder you have no problem with finding adventures..."

Aziraphale leaned up and nibbled a little at the very inviting collar bone.

Anthony licked his lips when Aziraphale touched him. His hands were almost hot, closing around him. He pumped his hips a few times while holding onto Aziraphale's wrist. Almost, almost wrapping their hands together to tighten their grip, but then....

"Mind your ears," Anthony muttered quietly and crawled forward, sitting up on Aziraphale's chest first, not quite putting all his weight down, just to see how Aziraphale felt about all of this still. He couldn't lean down and kiss him, so he held onto the side of the couch with one hand and rubbed Aziraphale's belly.

Aziraphale took a moment to admire that wonderful long and sinew thing before him up close. Oh yes, he wanted that in his mouth. definitely. One hand was settling on the small of Anthony's back, pressing a little. The blue eyes, glazed with renewed lust, looked up at Anthony through pale lashes, mouth opening slowly with his tongue resting relaxed on the bottom.

Aziraphale quirked one brow in a silent question. Or maybe a request of invitation.

"You're a smug, sock-garter wearing bastard," Anthony muttered with far too much affection. He continued to lick his lips, a small nervous tick, arching his back at the gentle touch there. "Hits all of my needs, really."

Anthony leaned up again, stretching over Aziraphale's head, and gripped the armrest he was just lying underneath. He steadied himself, gripped his cock, and threaded it slowly into Aziraphale's mouth, sliding it against that inviting tongue with a low, reedy moan. He paused, perhaps two inches past the entrance of Aziraphale's lips, and tucked his chin down tight to his chest to watch. His hair spilled into his eyes and he quickly raked it back, only for it to fall again, a curtain that dropped and shielded him.

For the first time, Aziraphale was slightly aware of the sounds me made when enjoying a good meal. Because he was very much enjoying this indeed, the musky scent and salty taste. He moaned around the hot flesh, his hands settling on Anthony's hips.

Aziraphale pressed his tongue against the underside as he started to bob his head slightly, just around the length that was already sitting in his mouth. He did pull back shortly after though, just leaving the tip sitting between his lips as he suckled on it, his tongue brushing along the underside of the head.

Anthony had made a show out of this and the conservator was more than eager to pay him back in his own coin.

Ah, so that's he was going to play it.

Anthony gripped the armrest tighter, enjoying the hot, wet sensation of Aziraphale's tongue. He could not help but to dig his nails into the upholstery and rolled his back again, both to chase after Aziraphale's mouth and then to take himself away so Aziraphale would have to try harder to lap at him.

"A right tease," Anthony growled, his cheeks still burning but his mouth quirking up into a smile. "I've my own hand, y'know."

He demonstrated by holding himself, stroking up and down, milking out a nice big pearl of precum that dolloped onto Aziraphale's lips and made them shiny again. Perhaps he could rival Aziraphale's delicious sounds with his own and lowered his hips once more to give himself over to Aziraphale.

This time, Aziraphale took him in deeper, starting a steady rhythm. His fingers were twitching, but he kept them on Anthony’s hips, digging into the flesh underneath. He tried to keep his jaw relaxed enough for Anthony to thrust in if he wanted to. A pinch to tell him he’d gone too deep, a tug to tell him to go deeper. Faster.

It felt amazing, but laying down and having to push up to take him in was even making Anthony's neck ache just by watching. He finally let go of the couch with one hand and brushed his fingers through Aziraphale's damp curls, before holding them a little tighter.

"Tell me...if it's too rough," Anthony panted and started rolling his hips, thrusting deeper, closer.

Anthony did his best to concentrate on Aziraphale's sounds again or the pressure of his fingertips or even the swallow of _oh fuck_ of his throat his tongue his lips his tongue his whole mouth his entire body beneath him _shit_.

"'m just...y'feel. Really good," Anthony whispered, eyes rolling back. He pushed up on the armrest to sit up, well, kneel up, and continued to thrust until he felt that tight tether threatening to snap, ready to come undone.

"Christ, 'm close. Tap me. Fuck, if it's okay," he whispered quickly, slowing his hips, and looked down the plane of his body back at Aziraphale again. "In your mouth, dove?"

Aziraphale’s neat hands gripped those hips tightly now, but more in anticipation and since he didn't know what to do with them otherwise. This felt too good, the stretch and slight strain in his jaw, Anthony's sounds, the way he was holding him by the hair. He could almost get hard again from that.

As requested, Aziraphale did tap and gave a very enthusiastic sound to underline his consent for this. He wanted this badly, to get all of that spent to swallow it up and, if it would be possible, to get everything a little on the messy side. Maybe he should tell Anthony about that preference later. He even stretched his head a little, trying to get Anthony’s cock as deep in as possible for this.

_Oh, thank fuck._

Anthony's hips moved faster, spurred on by Aziraphale's enthusiasm. He tensed again and came with a shudder, his face screwing up behind the curtain of frizzy curls. He arched his back with an open-mouthed cry and twitched in Aziraphale's mouth.

Gripped those soft pale curls harder, too. Might have stung Aziraphale's scalp and, even as he was coming down yet, he flattened his hand, soothing them over Aziraphale's scalp.

Anthony's hair puffed out away from his face. He was panting hard, riding through his orgasm, definitely using Aziraphale's mouth as much as was given to him.

And he did give over completely. Aziraphale swallowed it down, reveling when the hot spurts filled his mouth, his throat. He made soft mewling sounds as he milked the rest out of Anthony, one hand coming forth to take the slowly softening cock in hand, so he could lap at it a little more. When he pulled back for good, a string of saliva still connected the tip of his tongue with the head of the cock.

It took him a moment to catch his breath again and his voice was rough and raspy, as he spoke.

"That was the best substitute for dinner I could have hoped for." It was accompanied with a low chuckle, shaking his body. "Come down here darling, rest a little."

As bidden, Anthony loosened his tight grip on the couch. He slipped down on Aziraphale as easy as water, collapsing on his chest, which was just what he needed to recover his breath. And then came up to kiss him.

It started because of this. A kiss. A cut finger, and a kiss. And how desperately they had both wanted each other.

Anthony wormed his way in next to Aziraphale on the couch so he wasn't laying directly on him, kissing him slower and softer.

"Best. Best, yes." Anthony laughed and nuzzled Aziraphale's cheek.

If it would be possible, Aziraphale would be glowing from sheer contentment. Besides being thoroughly shagged, the afterglow cuddles were one of the most treasured parts of sex, in his opinion. And it seemed like Anthony was sharing this thought, given how soft and tenderly his kisses were and the way he snuggled right in. Aziraphale did not need to know if this was a treasured aspect of Anthony’s or if this was a rare occurrence. It was shared now, and it was wonderful.

Aziraphale smiled, carding his fingers through the damp auburn hair and pressing more kisses against the other’s temple.

“It’s a little bit funny. If I think of our first meeting and how we ended up here... it’s almost a cliché. That I don’t mind. Heaven’s, I have fantasized about this for weeks now...”

"Weeks?" Anthony squeaked, his face going bright red again. That he had any blood left to rush to his cheeks...he groaned and kissed Aziraphale's collarbone. "You're a sweet bastard too."

In truth, this _was_ Anthony's favorite part too. He rarely indulged. And now? Now, he over indulged, if anything, turning into a sap. Cuddly. Contented. Hell, they were spooning! And he was enjoying it! He wanted to say things like "I loved this" and, "We need to do this again," and "Aziraphale, I adore you, let's move in together and be old art loons together because my heart is racing under your fingertips like it hasn't for anyone in a long time and that terrifies me, are you a witch? I think you bewitched me? Not fair, but I'm not taking any refunds on this."

Instead, he just nuzzled Aziraphale's cheek and pet down his chest and grinned softly with his eyes closed. "You masturbated in my shower, didn't you," he said, his voice damp against Aziraphale's skin.

Maybe he should be offended being called a bastard just twice (and there was nothing wrong with wearing sock garters, thank you) but it was such an affectionate statement that Aziraphale did not mind. He stilled his caresses for a moment, however.

“...I tried to be discreet. What gave it away?”

There was embarrassment but Aziraphale was too happy now to tweak on that and laughed softly about himself.

“I’m not the best when it comes to holding back on the more pleasurable things in life. And with you in front of my nose all the time...well I had to do something.”

"Believe me," he muttered and kissed Aziraphale's cheek down until he nibbled on one of his earlobes. "Like I said, can't eat cake around you. Because!" he explained carefully, rubbing Aziraphale's chest, "you'll steal a bite, which I would permit, but the noises you make. I've very good hearing, did you know?" That should explain even the little shower incidents, though, truly, that had only been a guess on Anthony's part. He almost laughed at it but knowing that they had been tiptoeing around each other and Aziraphale had wanked in his shower when he was right in the same cabin with him. Well, that was nearly enough to inspire a second go.

Aziraphale shifted a little so they were laying together more comfortably, one arm coming around to pull Anthony against himself. One of his legs slid over the long limbs as well, as if he needs to make sure the other is not standing up and leaving.

One could feel trapped by such gestures, as Anthony had in the past, but he was comforted in this case.

Except, oh, it was so nice just being wrapped up like this. He was soft, truly. Aziraphale's body and touch and voice were soft, and Anthony's heart was in it now. Yes. He could sink right here and be very content. That, and they'd need to get some supplies from town next time. Improvising wasn't out of the question, but...would be an easier clean up and less pain potential.

"Guess this means I can spoon your proper in the bed now," Anthony said, his voice melting at the edges. "If I did before...well, I'm not sorry about it. But that was less a conscious effort than I meant it to be. Still. I'd, um...I'd love to fall asleep. With you. I mean, I know we already have, just...bloody hell." He grumbled and hid his embarrassment at word choices or lack thereof back in the crook of Aziraphale's neck.

“I think, both of us might be guilty on that part,” Aziraphale murmured into the hair, pressing a little closer a warm smile on his face. Things like this weren’t said when you only wanted a quick shag. This sounded genuine and so soft, Aziraphale had to contain a happy wiggle. “I’d like that as well, falling asleep. Like this.” He kissed Anthony’s forehead, his brow bones. “And waking up together, in each other’s arms. Listening to your breath as you slowly wake up for me….”

He could only whisper now. This state always made him a little sentimental, poetic even. He wanted to hold Anthony close, feel his heartbeat, watch his serene face while sleeping. Aziraphale wanted everything. It was terrifying, really, how much want one could feel for another. And it was only heightened now, when they were laying together like this, cuddly and content and.

Maybe in love.

“Speaking of the bed,” he started to distract himself. “Sooner or later, we ought to migrate upstairs. But don’t you dare to think, that this will be over then. I demand more of it.” he shifted, holding Anthony’s face so they were facing each other. “More of this.”

And he leaned in for another kiss. Soft and tender, almost chaste, he lingered there, all tension rushing out of his body.

The softness of the moment, hanging delicately between them like spider webs, made Anthony's heart hammer harder and harder in his chest. He nuzzled in, smiling in the safety of this comfort, of those lips.

He could not believe his luck, after what they had been through. Everything. Everything. He could kiss reverently. Lips. Plasters on fingertips. Collarbones and soft stomachs and kneecaps. For how long? No, one must not think such things in this blissful aftermath.

"Good, cause we'll both be shuffling round the cabin like we need walkers if we sleep here." He chuckled and gasped, gently biting Aziraphale's shoulder. "Thank you."

"For what?" Aziraphale asked, brushing some strands out of Anthony's forehead.

The little bite was quite playful and nice, but Anthony was right, it was getting a little uncomfortable on here, pressed together like this. So Aziraphale started to sit up and admired the body that was still draped so artfully against the backrest. He remembered wearing his socks still and started to clip off the garters.

It was a good distraction, watching Aziraphale fold over his knees, carefully unclipping the socks. The stripe of the garters across his calves. He had to keep himself from that little nervous habit again, licking his lip, biting it down. Perhaps not...nervous....

"Right, bed." Anthony sat up after him and didn't give himself a chance to second guess as he cupped Aziraphale's cheek and kissed him, slipping his body off the couch and standing up so he could slowly back away and try and draw Aziraphale to follow him. It was no easy task. Trying to get up, first, was a trial, and then, soon after kissing him, to back away? But he grinned, hooking his finger, a follow me direction. He left the clothes on the floor, his underpants kicked off the end of his foot, and started for the small staircase.


	16. Chapter 16

It seemed like Anthony's mind was set on something entirely else, since there was no answer to his question. Aziraphale shrugged it off. There were other things more important. Watching that sinewy body rising from the couch for example, watching the muscles underneath the painted skin shift.

The conservator had just rolled his last sock down as he was beckoned up the stairs. Anthony looked positively tempting and Aziraphale rose as well, his skin slightly prickling from anticipation. So, he followed his host, enjoying the very nice view he was granted as he ascended the stairs. He did not know what would happen up there. The most likely was that there would be more tender caresses and talking, until the exhaustion of a good orgasm would take them under. Or, they could very well find their second wind and soon find themselves falling over each other like hungry hyenas. You could say it was kind of a Schroedinger's bedroom up there.

Anthony made it up to the top and sighed a little when he realized he had made the bed this morning...er...afternoon? Pretty close to afternoon. Fairly decent of Aziraphale to let him sleep in when he just could not rise with the morning. He liked sleeping! It was generally a very peaceful experience.

Though, he might not be able to find peace so easily with Aziraphale in bed with him.

Anthony walked to the bed and sat down on the end of it, crossing one leg over the other and putting his hands on his knee to sit primly and, for the most part, covering the essentials. He smiled and watched Aziraphale come up from the stairwell, ready to invite him in. The curtains were open, little shifts of fading light and the potential for the full moon to cast down on the floor later that evening. Was it too early for a proper bedtime? Sure. But maybe bedtime wasn't entirely what they needed.

Though, of course, Anthony was not going to say no to a good cuddle.

Aziraphale stopped, one hand still on the banister, taking in the sight. It was astonishing how fast his friend (affair? Lover?) could switch back from utterly flustered and soft to smug and confident. But it was all just a facade, wasn’t it? Well, mostly. Aziraphale came over, his legs and feet partially illuminated in the dim light of the evening.

Reaching the end of the bed, he stilled, his blue eyes taking in the beautiful face, still aglow from their past activities. Aziraphale took it in both his hands gingerly, as if he were touching a fragile statue made of glass. His thumbs brushed over the cheekbones, the smile lines on the corner of eyes nearly aglow with delight.

“Gracious your form and your eyes as honey: desire is poured upon your lovely face Aphrodite has honored you exceedingly...”

Aziraphale’s voice was calm and steady while he studied Anthony with reverence. It was not entirely his fault, though falling into the need to recite poetry did ignite some embarrassing thing in him. Still, it felt appropriate. Necessary. He could not stop himself if he tried.

While he had not boned up on his romantic poetry, Anthony was certain he recognized the line fed to him by Aziraphale then. He reached up and took Aziraphale’s hands, the façade he wore stubbornly for everyone up to and including himself crumbling like wet sad. Aziraphale was the fastest to make it fall. Anthony found he did not care to pick up the pieces so quickly anymore.

Standing slowly, carefully, he looked down into Aziraphale's eyes, turning to kiss Aziraphale's palm. He lingered, slipping kisses to his finger pads, down to his wrist, and rested his cheek on Aziraphale's hand as he looked up to him, open and earnest and even bashful.

"Come to bed," he whispered. He did not have poetry. Not any that he had memorized, anyways. But he kept his voice as reverent, and pulled Aziraphale onto the mattress with him, laying on their respective sides, colliding together in the middle for a kiss.

There was no resistance. Aziraphale followed that request like a sailor would follow the sweet song of a siren, sailing on to impending doom. There was of course not such thing waiting for him there, down on the soft mattress, the silky sheets underneath their bodies as they pressed closer.

One of the reasons why Aziraphale had not taken on some adventures all this time had been the fear of falling. Falling too fast and too hard for somebody that would only use him, abandon him as soon as there were better options on the horizon. Because he would not be enough, with his stuffiness, his silly routines he needed, the sometimes pedantic hold on old and complicated ways to do something. Maybe interesting for a moment and forgotten the next.

But this? This felt so different from the start. Aziraphale felt himself truly desired by someone else.

Both their lips were kiss-swollen by this point and neither of them seemed to care. There couldn’t be enough kissing. It seemed like the core of Aziraphale’s whole existence. It was slow and sensual, saying much more than a poem might be able to deliver. When he opened his eyes the next time, moonlight was already pouring over the floor, painting everything in its pale light.

Aziraphale blinked slowly, trapped in honey. His hands rested somewhere on Anthony’s body, but he could not say where exactly right now, as like his snake on the thighs, they seemed to be coiled together, making it hard to distinguish where one started and the other ended.

One had to breathe, unfortunately, and though the heart was willing, the body required moments of peace. So, Anthony let their foreheads rest together when they both came up, though their legs were braided together and his hands were just as much around Aziraphale as Aziraphale's hands were on him. Somewhere, firm, a constant in this.

Anthony shifted his cheek on the pillow, his eyes closed in the dark, breathing and listening, and he smiled when he felt Aziraphale's fingers grip him, as though to remind him he couldn't go anywhere. Not that he wanted to.

"Tell me of your childhood," Anthony whispered quietly in the evening darkness. "Something that made you happy."

And while he spoke, Anthony traced up Aziraphale's side, catching one of his elbows, then his shoulder, squeezing it in return. He kissed Aziraphale's brow while he spoke, laughing quietly, absorbing his stories to hold onto and tuck away for later. Anthony told about a cat that wasn't his but his neighbors that he liked to chase and sunbathe with in the summer, as he was asked to answer whenever he came up with a question.

"Tell me about...your first day away from home."

“Tell me about...the first time you went to a museum?"

"The last time you went to a park?"

"Your favorite flavor of ice cream?"

"The song playing in your head."

"Your most benign fear."

The more they shared, the warmer Anthony felt, slipping into the intoxicating fever of discovery and devotion, the playful game of give and take and the warm comfort that came with finding new things about each other. He pressed himself in closer, not necessarily to instigate any unquenchable passion but to feel the vibrations of Aziraphale's confessions and laughter. He thought he liked that best, of all of it. The icing on the cake, as it were. The laughter. The love it rang out far too easily.

“…And then, I only picked up boxing because my crush on a fictional character was so big, I thought it might bring me closer to him. Ridiculous, but it paid out at last,” Aziraphale continued with a chuckle, settling in against the long body, tracing the coils on his thighs idly. He was going quiet for a while, just listening to Anthony’s breathing, his own chuckles.

It was still so...Aziraphale, that answer, and Anthony chuckled into the back of one of his hands, nodding at the idea. Of course, he'd been inspired by a crush. On a fictional character no doubt. It wasn't something so wholly unusual, just...quite pleasing to hear about it from Aziraphale. Maybe he really was in love when he didn't even want to poke any fun about it.

“Have you ever believed in the concept of fate?” Aziraphale whispered in the dark. “That things happen for a particular reason...?”

"Fate?" Anthony perked up his eyebrows, something he was doing every time Aziraphale said anything within the last minutes as a last-ditch effort to stay awake with him as long as possible. "S'pose fate could be a part of it? Having someone in charge of all...this. Sounds...tiresome." He pouted and carded Aziraphale's hair. "Takes all the fun of discovery and guessing out of the mix, Angel. Why?"

Aziraphale smiled. It was a concept too dull for the adventurous Anthony Crowley. He himself had never really believed in it, at least not for himself. It applied to fantastic stories, to a certain kind of people from time to time. But ever since they had met....

Aziraphale took one of the elegant hands, kissing its palm.

“Because, I can’t shake the feeling that…you might see me as a hopeless fool for this, really, but.... I can’t shake the feeling that there’s a connection between us neither of us were aware of. But here we are. The boy who gave away his scholarship and the boy who got it in the end. The forger who operated for decades without being caught, only to be called out to his face by the conservator who had been too afraid his French might not be good enough to study abroad.

“You have to admit, it sounds awfully like it was destined, written somewhere. Or, perhaps, like someone was pushing us around a play field we weren’t aware of, dancing around each other until the dice fell in our favor. Or—”

Aziraphale interrupted his own musings with a yawn that tapered off to a chuckle. He couldn’t help it. And he snuggled in closer afterwards.

“Either way, whatever it was... I’m more than pleased by the outcome. Even though I despised you after our first meeting.” Another chuckle as Aziraphale’s hand slowly wandered over Anthony’s arm, up to his biceps.

Anthony wanted to argue fate, go down a whole philosophical debate on it, on the morals of such a world view, on the crises it sparked in him, but he just nudged his forehead into Aziraphale's shoulder and nipped his skin.

"You're right," he answered and kissed the spot he had just bit, much like a cat apologizing to where he had latched onto a moment before. "I knew you had to despise me. Made chasing you so much more fun."

"Chasing me? So that's what you were doing... I thought you were just enjoying annoying me."

Anthony focused on Aziraphale's hands again, sinking deeper into the bedding.

"Annoying…. Grab the blankets. Please?"

Aziraphale leaned up and got the blanket as requested, covering them both under it as he was snuggling closer again. Sleep was crawling up their spines slowly and Aziraphale closed his eyes, taking in the other’s warmth and scent as he made himself comfortable.

"I think, I might be falling asleep, love..."

Was he chasing him? Course he was. And, though the idea of fate still was unsettling, Anthony couldn't deny...he'd been chasing that kind stranger who gave him the scholarship that started his life. Maybe, in some ways, he had hoped to find the nameless benefactor, grab them by the lapels, and shake them, demanding it all be turned around. That he wouldn't have fallen from societal graces so hard if he hadn't been tempted throughout life. But, if he were honest, it wasn't a hard fall, not even a stumble. Anthony sauntered into this life same as he did into a room.

And, besides, holding Aziraphale was much sweeter than shaking him.

He breathed in the slight cinnamon of Aziraphale's musk and nodded quietly.

"Think you might be," Anthony mumbled with a sleepy smile. He kissed Aziraphale's cheek and slipped himself into Aziraphale's embrace, letting himself settle into sleep just as easily.

-

While two very happy gentleman were falling asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted from their amorous activities, Miss Mary Carpenter was shutting down her computer for the day. It was already late for her, but it didn’t slip her mind that her boss had not come out of his office at all until now and so she sighed, straightened her pencil skirt and softly knocked on the door. She did not wait for permission however and stepped in with the look of a mother that had told her teenager son to get his dirty laundry in the washer one hour ago just to find him playing video games instead.

Spoken from experience and all….

“Mr. Gabriel, you’re still here? It’s almost eight.”

Gabriel unwrapped a piece of gum over his desk, staring at the stick like one might study a piece of evidence for fingerprints, and suddenly popped it into his mouth. He sank back into his desk with a heavy, unhappy sigh, the records of their case spread out. Now, how to make it stick to a devil, hmm?

He looked up from his desk, squinting in the lamp-lit office, and smiled.

“Ah. Sorry, Mary. I’m not keeping you, am I?”

“You never could, sir,” Mary answered gently. “But this will be here for you in the morning. Why don’t you head home?”

Somewhere else, in a much darker and rougher part of London, Beez Prince had just stepped out of their shower. They had toweled themself dry and were standing in front of a large wardrobe, stark naked but oddly confident for such a petite person. Despite standing nearly an hour under the hot jets trying to work the stubborn knots out of their shoulders and back, there was a slight stain to their skin, a little grungy tangle of their ink-black hair.

A special phone rang while they stared at their wardrobe, catching their attention. Beez shuffled over, looking at the displayed name and clicking on the green button. Instead of lifting it to their ear, talking to whoever was on the other end, they clicked the speaker icon and laid the device down, turning around to check their wardrobe again. A little crackly “...it’s almost eight,” echoed from the speaker.

A wonder what was possible nowadays with things smaller than actual bugs and as responsive as something you might find at NASA. Beez fetched a pair of boxers and a tank top, starting to dress while they listened in on Inspector Gabriel and his secretary.

“Why don’t you head home?” Mary had said.

Gabriel laughed, brushing a paw of a hand down his face.

"Right," he answered. "Guess the time just got away from me. I'm sorry again, Mary.”

“Don’t be, Mr. Gabriel.”

One thing to say, another to act on. He took a deep breath and smiled at her. “You getting home to the spouse, then? Uh...hmm." He checked his watch, even after she had told him the time. "D'you need someone to walk you to your car?"

“Thank you for that kind offer but I’m a big girl. I think I can manage,” Mary said with a smile, patting the side of her purse. There was a pepper spray and her many years as the leader of her school’s football team. That foot and knee might need a gun license. She still did not seem satisfied and hovered near the entrance. They had been working together for quite a while now and Mr. Gabriel was not looking his best.

“You look positively knackered, sir, if I may say so.”

“Knackered?” He didn’t mean to be the ignorant American, but…well….

“Tired. And even more than Jay and he’s been playing weird games all night with his strange little online community...”

She chewed her lip a moment before she stepped over and leaned against his desk.

“What’s bothering you, Jon?”

"Bothering?" He laughed, a properly good laugh, a warm chuckle put on like a sturdy hat. "No, no. I'm...."

Oh, the facade was cracking. He wanted to go for a run and clear his head. Someday he'd get up nice and early and do a few laps around the park. Hopefully it wouldn’t be too cold.

"I'm just...not...sure. You've been listening in," he said with a little hand wave over his desk. He had worked with Mary enough now and trusted her with his life. That, and knew she always had her ear tuned in, so it wasn't a stretch that she had some idea about all this. "What do you make of that Prince fellow, hmm? And their lot?"

The sound of laughter echoed through the industrial loft that was the current home to Prince, making them flinch when pulling on their socks. “Tch...disgusting,” they mumbled with much less venom than usual. Gabriel’s laugh was soft and awfully appealing. They hated they wanted to hear him laugh more, though they did perk up at hearing their name.

“Prince? Honestly?” Mary clucked her tongue and shifted her weight, still holding onto her purse. “Guilty if sadly not charged. Some gangs of New York style, you know? We had our share of Eosphoros cases throughout the years, but this bunch is really...shady. And they’re not even trying to hide it.” She sighed again and started to right some of the files on the table, just out of habit. “That Prince person has got quite a big ego for someone that looks like my son in the height of puberty.”

This comment made the person in question growl. This Mary should get some seeing to. Maybe an inconveniently ruined car. Or someone talking to her precious son...

Beez tried to get their thought train back on track.

“The other two? That, uh, Hastley.”

“Hastur,” Gabriel corrected.

“Right. Hastur and Ligur, that’s it. Always together. Typical goons, I tell you. But it’s like always, isn’t it? They’re committing a crime right in front of our noses and we can’t prove it. And then, witnesses disappear suddenly. It’s like we’re in The Godfather, really.

“Actually, that reminds me.”

“ _That_ reminds you?” Gabriel asked with another chuckle.

“Hush. Listen, Uriel got me a memo just after 6 today, saying they’ve tracked our two men down. We’ll get the files tomorrow but I can tell you about the details of the mail if you want. I’m sending it to you immediately as well. I should have done it sooner, but I was still trying to get those files for Sandi done.”

Gabriel shot up from the prospect of a memo from Uriel. He stepped closer, inadvertently towering over her, not because he wanted to be towering nor intimidating to Mary, which, knowing her sports history, was not as likely as one might think if they popped in and saw them. Still, he took the files habitually from her after she cleaned them up and put them in the cabinet drawer to the left, keeping it in order.

Someone different was perking up as well, pushing themselves from the mattress and getting over to the speaker to listen clearer.

“The specifics will be stated in her report tomorrow, but the area seems to be the South Downs.”

“South Downs? What’s that? Somewhere in London or something? Suburb?”

“Oh, it’s lovely there, sir. You’ve never been there? No, right, why would you.” Mary laughed gently. “We used to rent a small cottage, back in the day when Jay was not born yet. Was a lovely little escape for Joseph and me...” she said with a dreamy smile, dwelling on some pleasant memories.

Beez, alone in their dark loft, was typing frantically on their other phone. They had to pay Gabriel a visit tomorrow, trying to figure out where exactly those two bastards were. They could feel the rush of adrenaline that was brought by a good hunt. Yes, this would be exciting. Who would arrive there first? And there was another strange joy in this; the prospect of seeing Inspector Gabriel again. It surely was only the admiration of a good counterpart. Yes, nothing more. Certainly not his stupid sturdy build and defined jaw. That typically American quarterback image he gave off. Disgusting! Someone should show him his place, where he belonged. Right...

Mary took another look at her wristwatch then, gasping.

“Oh my, I have to hurry up now. God knows what my son will be doing if I won’t get him to eat dinner and do some chores. One of these days I’ll come home and he’s a cult leader or something. And you, Sir, should let it be as well. Go home. Take a shower. Maybe watch something relaxing.” She patted his shoulder and turned around, not waiting for him. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice evening.”

"Right, thank you, Mary," Gabriel called after her, writing a quick note to himself, mostly just SOUTH DOWNS and COTTAGE with little arrows that pointed to them and read ?? and "CABIN."

He folded his arms across his chest, tucking the pen away in the little breast pocket, still mulling things over. Before he spit out his gum in the trashcan - "waste bin", whatever – and grabbed his suit jacket, his keys, and headed out after locking his office up for the night. Mary was right. He was going to be useless until he had a report tomorrow anyways.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are horny teenagers. Seriously. Blowjobs all around!

As always, the first beams of sunlight tugged annoyingly at Aziraphale’s consciousness, even if he had played with the thought of ignoring this habit altogether. He tried to hide his face in the pillow but it was not enough coverage to shut the brightness out. So, he turned around completely, in the direction of something warm and soft against him. Ah...there he could hide his face perfectly, sink into warmth and comfort and the crook of a long and wonderful neck.

Right.

 _That_ had happened yesterday.

Or maybe, it hadn’t and Aziraphale had discovered a very new and intense form of lucid dreaming. The first option seemed far more plausible. He dared to crack one eye open a little and was greeted with the blurry mix of pale skin and auburn hair, very close. He smiled sleepily and nuzzled into that perfect hiding spot, his arms enveloping the long assembly of limbs. It would take hours for Anthony to wake up, so Azirapahle tried to make the best out of it and revel in their closeness. Had they been sleeping this entangled all night? He did not feel sore and honestly, this thought warmed his chest.

Since his mind was already a little too awake, Azirapahle used the quiet moment to let his hands wander over the other’s body. Softly, tenderly, always eager to not disturb the artist's slumber.

Generally, as Anthony had a habit of sleeping alone, even after his dalliances, he wasn't used to being touched in his sleep or waking up in the middle of the night to spot a bit of blonde curls sprouting from the pillow beside him. But their time in the cabin had at least acclimated him to both touch and sight and so he wasn't so easily disturbed by the gentle petting that morning.

It was, in fact, quite welcomed, after the little strenuous exercise they'd experienced on the couch together. He smiled, his eyes still closed, and lazily tracked his hand up to find Aziraphale's somewhere on his arm.

"'s still too early," he grumbled, shifting so he could lace their fingers together. He didn't check a clock. Hadn't opened his eyes to see the sunlight. But he could tell from his well cemented sleeping habits. Well, he couldn't be too mad. He rubbed Aziraphale's knuckles with his thumb and eventually brought it up to kiss them. Still sleep heavy and warm. Anthony kissed them again and gently bit them with his teeth, like a cat wanting to play and too tired to do more than a quick nibble. At least it inspired his mind to fill in another question. "Want some breakfast?"

"Later."

A low and deep chuckle followed, dripping with sleep itself. The playful and equally soft attention to his hand made it far too easy to sink back into the mattress, shuffling closer with his own head to place kisses that were nothing more than feathered brushes over the elegant hand that was holding onto him.

"I'll abstain from wishing you a good morning already. Sleep, I'll rest a little more myself. Just can't help to rise with the sun...old habits die hard, I s'pose..."

He hummed and let their entwined hands linger just at his mouth. Yes, this seemed to be a perfect place for them to rest, to connect them even further.

Aziraphale had feared that, if there ever would be any amorous activities between them, it would get awkward and irritating right away. Because, let's be honest, all the signs and stars aligned seemed to point int that direction. But surprisingly, there was no strange silence, no embarrassed stuttering or waking up in a panic, thinking " _No, no, no!_ " This was a slow waking-up-together, full of the feeling of being closer than ever. Not only because they had just mutually sucked their brains out but more because of everything that had happened after. The questions about his childhood and youth, the talk about destiny. It was a miracle that everything had turned out like it was now. No disturbances. No hiccups. No—

Oh...

"We forgot the beef in the marinade..."

“Beef?”

“For dinner,” Aziraphale whispered conspiratorially, unable to keep the smile off his face watching Anthony trying to piece his words together. “Last night, dear boy.”

"Guess it'll be tender," Anthony answered with a happy sigh and settled his cheek not on the pillow where it belonged but on Aziraphale's chest, hugging him up tighter, quite happy with this. It was painfully comforting, and he turned his face down to kiss Aziraphale's pecs, nuzzling in against him.

When he was settled again, he could hear Aziraphale's body, the gurgles and growls, the rush of his lungs, the steady beat of his heart. He stayed there, not awake enough to think oh, must be uncomfortable, laying like this, what if it's hurting him or if it's too heavy or something? He just stayed there, greedily drinking up his affections, his nails gently scratched across skin and tufts of hair, until his movements stilled, and he was lulled to sleep again by that wonderful heartbeat just underneath his cheek.

Another chuckle, but Aziraphale was swept under by sleep again with that comforting weight on him.

But one cannot resist their nature forever and Aziraphale opened his eyes a short while later, now fully awake. Same had to be said about nature in regards to Anthony Crowley, draped over him like a blanket. It was a delicate challenge to wiggle out from underneath him, more so when the unconscious individual was still clutching to him and every time he tried to move a little farther, Anthony’s hands seemed to find a better hold on him. In the end, Aziraphale was successful and kissed the crown of flaming hair in disarray before venturing into the bath.

As the space was free and the patch of bedding warm, Anthony filled into it naturally, curling up on the spot. He had been chasing after some hazy thought of a dream, not entirely comprehensible – something about...cooking? Maybe a pie was involved? – and drifting in and out after the sounds settled back to quiet in the room. He had no worries about Aziraphale disappearing into the bath, if he needed to relieve himself or take a shower or wash his face? It was free for him to do so, and it was free for Anthony to continue to catch his precious moments of sleep. He loved it. He had grown into the habit of resting well, at least late into the mornings.

It was only that his phone was buzzing nearby that really snagged his attention and he finally rolled over to snatch it, sitting himself up somewhat in the pillows and glaring blearily at his phone.

There were just three text messages from his gardener. She was terribly talkative and had only managed to keep her messages short because the phone limited her to do so. Seemed she wanted to come by and check on the garden but had heard down in the village that he was back for a visit and if it would be too much of a bother if she didn't just check the insulation, there was news of a cold snap coming in.

"Evie," he muttered, thumping the bright screen to his forehead. “They’re going to be fine. What’re you worried about? Some clippings? Take the damn clippings.”

Course, he needed to type that out and he found his thumbs were not quite up to the task of forming full words. His autocorrect was being abysmal about it too.

The steady pattering of the shower tapered off in the attached bath. Shortly after, Aziraphale emerged, wearing nothing but a towel around his plush hips. There was no need to be coy about this now, they had just had sex. There was always the slight sting of self-consciousness, but he had learned to just ignore as best as he could manage.

Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed with a crooked smile, watching the very grumpy and disheveled Anthony trying to text with his mobile far too close to his face. It was like the exact scenario he had always pictured when receiving such texts himself and he chuckled affectionately while rubbing his hair with a hand towel.

“Who dared to wake you up, dear?”

"The gardener," Anthony grumbled. He was pouting and finished off his reply. Something quick and cool and yet riddled with spelling errors. He tossed the phone onto the mattress, where it sunk into the thick downy blanket, his eyes slowly tracking up Aziraphale as he woke up. "Now that's...much better than my screen."

Anthony's grin was slowly warming up, sharper at the edges, and he clearly reached for Aziraphale before his hand fell next to him, pretending it was just a stretch.

"You going to head down? I can join you in a bit if you like."

“In a bit,” Aziraphale agreed. “So...two hours? Besides...” He reached for Anthony’s hand, bringing it up to the conservator’s lips to give the back a short kiss. “I don’t think that that’s what you really wanted to suggest.”

Watching Anthony swallow hard, Aziraphale took it a step further and guided Anthony’s hand up to his chest. It was still soaked up with the warmth of a good hot shower, soft, smelling Anthony’s bergamot soap mixed with Aziraphale’s own unique scent.

“I thought we already have established that my skill in observation is quite high, to say the least. We have all the time in the world. Downstairs can wait...”

It was like a shocking reminder that he didn't have to waste any time rubbing out his frustrations in the shower after Aziraphale. He could just...ask. And potentially have him. Right now. And it was an immediate jolt between his legs when Aziraphale guided his hand to his chest.

Anthony rolled himself up closer, the sheets dragging off his naked hips, so he could hold Aziraphale's face as he kissed him good morning. He frowned into it, not because he was unhappy with any of it. His libido did not diminish. His desire did not temper itself. In fact, it might have jumped up higher, with more purpose, demanding he try and ravish this man already.

But....

No bloody condoms. No lube! And he should probably brush his teeth....

But....

Anthony rolled his hips in tight to Aziraphale, the towel a paltry divide between the two of them. He would remove it, if he were allowed, but let Aziraphale keep the honour of his own modesty as he saw fit, simply kissing to telegraph his desires, carding fingers through damp hair, tugging on warm shower-stained flesh.

Now this was a prospect for a good morning. Azirapahle couldn’t help but to wear a triumphant smile into the kiss before deepening it a little. There was nothing against a round two in the morning after a full night of sleep. Maybe he should have waited on the shower but that was just a small sacrifice for something far more thrilling.

He savoured the fingers in his hair for a moment before leaning forward, pressing Anthony back into the bedding with the weight of his body. Aziraphale covered Anthony, starting to travel down that jawline with kisses until he had given that lower lip a good nip that made Anthony groan in approval. His mouth went further down, exploring the neck, nibbling experimentally on some areas before soothing over the small red spots with his tongue afterwards. It was a nice salty taste, like sex and sleep and very much Anthony. Aziraphale pulled back slightly when coming down to the collar bone, leaning his head against one bony shoulder.

“Mhh...I had no chance to inspect that unique ink you carry around. Mind if I give it a proper look? Expert here on art and all.”

"Please."

Anthony had his arms wrapped around Aziraphale's shoulders and looked down at him, eyes drunk on the late morning light and lust flooding his bloodstream. He kept his hands light, barely grabbing fistfuls of Aziraphale's hair, and his legs spread out as an invitation for Aziraphale to inspect. Surely just the art, though a convenient exclamation point of anatomy in the center. Should he be embarrassed? Why, because Aziraphale had given him an erection? That was sort've the whole point!

Still made him shivery and hot at the same time. He snaked his head to the side to watch Aziraphale's face, at least as best he could from this inconvenient angle. He dropped his hands to the towel and tugged at it, since it was already baggy at the hips, and then held onto it after it had slipped out of its hold completely, using it as a sort've hand hold around Aziraphale's plush hips. He could have grabbed the skin there, but this? This hugged and tugged at Aziraphale better than his hands could, keeping him close. Trapped, even, but in the best possible way.

Aziraphale smiled the knowing smile of someone with a plan that was already set in motion and continued his journey down the expanse of one long torso. Alternating his kisses between chaste pecks and open-mouthed lapping, teasing a nipple on the way with his teeth. But there was something different he was set on and as he finally reached it, the conservator pulled back to take in the masterpiece. He was sitting up, nestling right between the legs and pushing the painted thighs slightly apart, so he got a better view of all the coils. Ignoring that attentive cock waiting in the middle of it, Aziraphale traced the pattern with his fingers, slightly pressing into the skin.

"A real piece of art..." he said with reverence and let his eyes wander over the sake engraved on that skin, up the path he'd be taking down and right into Anthony's gorgeous eyes.

"Marvelous."

He scooted back a little more despite Anthony clinging to the towel and leaned down, starting to kiss over the painted skin of the left inner thigh, as if he was expecting to taste the ink.

There was no chance Anthony could keep watching him, doubly so when he was achingly hard and leaking just beside Aziraphale's cheek. He swallowed and breathed fast, fisting the sheets instead of the towel now as he tried to keep his voice calm and even, happy even.

"Got it over a c-couple sessions. Hurt like a bastard. Worth....worth it. Every...bloody hell, every bit. Actually."

Christ, now Aziraphale was licking it. He'd already been plucked apart with the gentle kisses, the teeth, the tongue. And he was licking Anthony's tattoo! Fuck Aziraphale, actually, because he was so damn hot just licking and commenting and being so fucking smug, probably.

Anthony loosened his grip on the duvet and reached for the top of Aziraphale's head, combing very gently through his curls again, surprising himself how smooth his gestures were.

"You ever think of getting any?" he whispered, his voice warm and delightfully rough around the edges.

There was a hum as he was considering the question. Aziraphale’s tongue traveled upwards, grazing the side of Anthony's balls on his journey up through the juncture of the leg, his eyes darting up at the artist again.

Aziraphale cushioned his cheek on Anthony’s hip, letting one finger brushing up the hard cock beside him from base to tip, letting his fingertip idly sitting on the slit.

"Mhhh not anymore, no. I think. I'm too old for such things now. I guess you got this some years ago?"

Oh, he was loving this, the gentle tease of a still very sleepy but also undoubtedly aroused Anthony. The way he was lounging on the bed, with its expensive sheets. He looked so luxurious and more than appetizing. How Azirpahale would dearly love to just straddle this gorgeous being and ride his cock slowly. But, there was still no lube so he ought to make use of his mouth yet again. Aziraphale tapped his finger once over the glans, then twice, watching viscous fluid pulling strings that connected them.

"Yeah." Anthony breathed out his answer, both to the question and Aziraphale's touch. He twitched a little at the taps and slid his hand down quickly to grip himself, milking out another glob of shiny precum.

"Yer not too old," Anthony mused, still soft, still contemplative and sedated. "You're…." What was he going to say? He was going to say _perfect_ and start down to road to _lovely_ and _beautiful_ and then it would all be soft declarations and hopeful wishes. He gripped himself harder like he was trying to remind himself not to be so pathetic and desperate.

His actual plan had been to lavish Anthony’s thighs a little longer before given that delectable cock his full attention but seeing that motion right in front of his eyes, the way it oozed out…Aziraphale hungrily wet his lips. His hand, which had only been teasing before, was now softly covering Anthony's, his thumb brushing over the knuckles.

"I am?" he asked smugly before propping himself up, his mouth mere centimeters from his glans. Aziraphale closed his eyes and licked, dragging his tongue over the tip and the shiny bead, moaning like they were back in that bakery, eating the devil's cake.

_I'm cake. I'm cake, I'm cake. I'm cake._

Anthony stretched his neck, chin jutting up, and moaned quietly towards the ceiling. Slowly, slowly, he sank back onto the bedding again.

"You are," he answered and laughed harder than he anticipated. He dragged his nails over Aziraphale's scalp. "Oh, fuck, you are. Definitely."

His giggling dispersed to little sighs and hums, then a reedier sound as he started breathing faster. He didn't use Aziraphale's mouth so much as lay there and let himself be taken. Truly a lazy way of going about it, but he was sinking into quite the happy little headspace, and he luxuriated in the moment, even selfishly. He continued to pet Aziraphale, any old excuse to keep touching the man, to prove this wasn't some really fucking elaborate dream and he was about to wake up embarrassing himself. But the other hand went up to play with his hair, to scratch his own scalp, to tug and comb it out behind him.

"Little more," he whispered, looking down the length of his body. It was a dare as much as it was a warning that, well, he couldn't need much more and he'd come down Aziraphale's pretty throat and it was a courtesy. A better warning would make itself known pretty shortly, if needed.

Taking the hint, Aziraphale swallowed him down in one go. It wasn't as deep as Anthony was capable of doing but Aziraphale made sure to compensate that with his hand, lightly squeezing the base every time his lips hit the fingers.

It wasn't a very rapid pace, more a languid and lazy morning blow job. He made up for it by pressing his lips firmly against the hot flesh when dragging them up and moaning unabashedly around it. Anthony still tasted oddly good – as good as cum could taste – so it had not only been his imagination in the heat of the moment last night.

At one point, Aziraphale abandoned holding the shaft, migrating it down instead to gently cup Anthony’s balls and roll them. This way, he could surely feel how close his lover was. He bobbed his head before feeling the testicles to pull up. Instead of taking it down the back of his throat right away, the prim and proper conservator decided to put on a little show, pulling up and just opening his mouth right at the tip, waiting eagerly for the price of his efforts.

And Anthony did manage to say a little, "I'm gonna-" as any gentleman might, if he were polite or, barring that, just eager or, better yet, eager and impolite and with someone who made him act polite because damnit, Aziraphale was worth pretending to be polite.

God, he felt dizzy.

Anthony craned his neck to look down again, a little disappointed at the lack of stimulation when he was so fucking close, only to see the open mouth, the slight twist of a smile at the corner of Aziraphale's lips, his eager eyes bright and beautiful beacons that zapped him to his core.

Fuck him, Anthony might have accidentally sobbed, actually.

What he did say was " _oh_ ," but it was too soft and warbly and he released, painting Aziraphale's pink tongue in uneven strings. His head dropped again, missing the rapturous sight, twitching through the rest of his release.

Was there a hint of a breathy chuckle? Perhaps. Aziraphale was very pleased with himself that he was still able to pull that little trick off. He knew how he appealed in situations like this. He closed lips around the twitching cock, one hand holding it still while he milked the rest out of him and the other was kneading Anthony’s thigh.

When the member softened, Aziraphale pulled off, shuffling and rearranging himself so that he was laying on the artists lower half, his head propped on his hands, resting on the still slightly twitching belly. He smiled up at Anthony, similar to a cat that had just brought a fresh catch into the house.

“Now that was a tasty first course.”

"Don't lie," Anthony whispered, rolling the back of his head on the bedding, chuckling more. It bounced Aziraphale on his stomach and he pet through his lounging cat of a partner's hair, over and over, then moving to his cheeks. "Up here. Little further. I...I need you."

God and Satan and anyone else in between, that was true, wasn't it? More than just that he needed a kiss after that performance? Well, he did. He needed Aziraphale. And he needed a kiss after that performance, yes. So, it was easy to play off that that was all he required, tugging gently, hoping Aziraphale would come up and indulge him more.

The smugness was melting into something far more tender and Aziraphale turned his head so he could kiss the palm before coming up, laying on his side to take that gorgeous and slightly blissed out face into his hands and bringing their lips together in a soft and sensual kiss.

Yes, this was currently the number one of Aziraphale’s best mornings in his life.

“I was not lying. That was a rather nice intermezzo before breakfast. You’re alright, dearest?”

"Dearest," Anthony mouthed back, still smiling. "Right, after breakfast? Shops. Supplies. Then I'm bringing you right up here and fucking you into this mattress." He brushed their noses together, his voice barely a whisper, and kissed Aziraphale again, licking into his mouth to taste himself. "That's a promise. Don't care if it'll take all afternoon either. Maybe breaks for...for scones."

Oh, that made his stomach do some weird flippy shit. Excitement and, yeah, there it was. Deep affection. Anthony groaned at the fate of his aching heart, curling into Aziraphale with hopes of flipping him onto his back.

Aziraphale had to chuckle yet again, full of affection and feeling like he was young and foolish again. Like he was madly in love for the first time. He scratched the red mane, pressing kisses all over the visible skin of Anthony’s forehead.

“I think I can get that into my schedule for today, yes. And I’m looking forward to that...but...there won’t be self-made scones if you keep me up here all day.” Another kiss and another soft tremor from the giggling, the sheer soft joy that was bubbling out of him right now. “There can be fresh scones tomorrow, is what I’m trying to say. Who knows if I’ll be able to stand if you’re keeping that promise of yours.”

“Fine. I’ll Google how to make scones. I want you stuck in this bed all day,” Anthony answered, enraptured by Aziraphale _giggling_ with him.

The warmth of the shower might have faded but another had settled in, filling every little nook and cranny of their bodies. Aziraphale felt light, that joyous fluttering in his belly and now, everything was a little calmer, like the sea on an almost wind-still day. It didn’t mean that things were already boring or less vibrant, oh no. It was just so much more...familiar already. Knowing that all this, whatever it was, was reciprocated. The hunger for each other’s skin but also the craving for intimacy on another level.

“Have I just made you sleepy again or are you up for some coffee in a moment? I can just putter around naked, if this is a higher motivation for you to leave this bed.”

Anthony lifted his head like a dog after hearing the word "walk," his eyes unfocused, clearly imagining the scene already. His mouth slowly twisted into a smile, then a frown, then a confused little smirk.

"Shirt. Yes. Yes, I think you need a shirt. Or...you'll burn yourself."

Anthony couldn’t pretend to think what the hell Aziraphale would burn himself on while making coffee. He was more worried about Aziraphale just standing there, naked and beautiful, and Anthony was going to be a true demon about it and never keep his hands off the other. Then where would they be? Shagging on the kitchen counter. Oh, no, that sounded like a good idea too.

Anthony rubbed his face into Aziraphale's chest in delighted and rekindled horny misery.

Whatever it was with his chest, but Anthony seemed to like it there. Aziraphale kept his hands in the hair, massaging his scalp a little longer before making the effort to get out of bed. As suggested, he got over to the closet, taking one of his light blue shirts out. As soon as they had been sharing a bed –platonically at that time – Aziraphale had moved his clothes upstairs, since shirts needed to be on hangars, of course. And since Anthony had not said a word about not liking this, they had been dangling there ever since.

The conservator looked down at himself as he closed the buttons around his belly. Now this was ridiculous without some pants, really. So, he got a pair, looking over his shoulder as he was ready.

“I’ll be downstairs making the coffee. How about you take a nice shower and then we’re right and ready for our trip to the store. Yes?”

He smiled sweetly and stepped over to Anthony stretching on the bed, placing a kiss on the temple there. He only pulled back enough to be right at the artist’s ear, whispering, ”The sooner we get there, the sooner I’ll be screaming your name in pure ecstasy. And now, shoo shoo, into the shower with you!”

"Y-...I c-...bu-we-mnn." Anthony was left spluttering like a lunatic as Aziraphale made his exit for the stairs. "That's not fair!" he finally called out to save his pride, smiling from the bed. He flopped back out, arms spread, body a noodly mess. Hell, his cock even twitched at the excitement and Anthony looked down his body.

"Easy, boy. We'll get him yet," he muttered. He rolled his eyes, too, making fun of himself, and finally vaulted up so he could indeed shower and join Aziraphale in the kitchen.

Where he could drop to his knees and have breakfast a la Aziraphale Cock at the sink. As a thank you.

Anthony scrubbed himself like he was sandpapering any possible sin or scab or imperfection, rinsed quickly, and got into tight black standards of dress.

The underpants today were purple. With funny little spiders on them. That might be a treat for later.

Anthony swiped up his phone off the novel charging plate stand and took the stairs quickly to join Aziraphale in the kitchen.

The latter was standing in front of one of the kitchen windows, humming happily while preparing the promised coffee and a tea for himself. There was also some toast on the way as well, cutlery and plates laid out.

Aziraphale did not turn around immediately, a little too caught up in his bliss. The shirt was just long enough to cover his bum, making it look like he was not wearing any underwear at all.

It was very ironic, wasn't it? Feeling so at peace and happy while they were hiding from actual criminals who wanted them dead, probably. But that was far away now. What really mattered was that they had in the cottage together.

And they were going to fall over each other like teenagers. Aziraphale was not complaining about that, after years of abstinence, oh no. He was very much looking forward to what would happen after their little trip to town. If they ever got out of the cottage in the first place.

Probably not. No, not with Aziraphale looking so perfect in the sunlight, his thighs free and aching to be touched. Right? Anthony should test how they feel when he was standing upright. Really, looking like that. Aziraphale was a magnet to Anthony. A fixed point. Anthony could not possibly help himself. He crossed the kitchen quickly and put his hands under the shirt, right on Aziraphale's rump as he leaned in and kissed the conservator behind his ear.

"Hello again," he purred, his voice deep and husky and hopefully telegraphing the smile stitched into his mouth. He dragged his fingers upwards and looped them around Aziraphale's waist. "Fancy seeing you here."

Aziraphale flinched as he had not heard Anthony approach, too caught up in his musing. Oh, those long fingers were squeezing him so _magnificently_ that he pressed back into him, chuckling. One of his arms came up and around, pushing Anthony closer by the head.

"Hello. What a coincidence indeed. I have heard great things about the Kitchen."

His voice was quiet and a little breathy but the smile in it was unmistakable. Aziraphale turned his head as far as possible, pressing a kiss on the now well-known lips.

"The coffee might get cold..."

"We can always reheat it," Anthony reasoned, happily accepting the kiss and trailing more along Aziraphale's neck and cheek.

He really was the insatiable teenager in the moment, and why not? Not like they overindulged in every little thing. No, and Aziraphale had had his fun earlier, though Anthony had reaped many benefits from it, but he could not find a reasonable excuse to keep his hands off Aziraphale. Fully dressed and slotted up behind Aziraphale like this just made his mouth water more and he groped around Aziraphale's hips, sliding down over his plump cheeks again, and gave them a good squeeze too.

"Would you mind?" Anthony muttered quietly. "I haven't had breakfast yet either."

As he insinuated, he tugged on Aziraphale to turn back around and lowered himself to his knees, kissing over the fabric that barely covered the poor conservator, least of all what Anthony wanted.

Aziraphale let himself be turned around gladly, watching with slightly glazed eyes as Anthony sank down, kneeled before him so reverently, so full of devotion. His lips were slightly parted as he took this in, hands combing through damp red hair.

“Reheat coffee, really? Are you even British?” he asked with a low chuckle. Aziraphale settled against the counter as comfortably as possible. “You’re the most gorgeous creature I ever be granted to lay my eyes upon...”

Anthony was about to say something truly foolish and admit to Aziraphale that he was all for him. Just about to hand his heart over on a platter and ask him to hold onto it for the foreseeable future.

Instead, he nuzzled Aziraphale's thigh, slowly drawing up the shirt.

"I've plenty of sketches around here that say the same about you," he admitted and lipped at Aziraphale's lower belly, still waiting to see if Aziraphale really was intent on having an actual breakfast and if he should stop or not.

“S-sketches?”

Aziraphale’s collected demeanor faltered. His eyes were blown wild and he blushed rapidly.

First of all, how had he not recognized when being sketched? Secondly, the fact that Anthony had done this, thinking of him as beautiful was almost too much. He could feel so many emotions well up and blinked rapidly and tried to distract himself with the sensation of warm lips on his skin.

“Oh, _Anthony_.”

With Aziraphale's hands in his hair, Anthony thumbed down the underpants – silly man, bothering with these this morning – and pulled Aziraphale's cock out, holding it carefully in his hand. He kissed down the shaft, licking up the curls nestled at the base, which made him laugh until he came back to the tip and pulled Aziraphale slowly into his mouth.

The hardwood floor was not as unforgiving as tile, but Anthony shifted on his knees, tucking himself neatly between Aziraphale's legs. He held onto one of Aziraphale's thighs and gave it a reassuring squeeze, slipping tongue and lips further down. The stretch of his mouth, his jaw, loosening his throat to take this beautiful man's cock was a delight that warmed Anthony's cheeks, even as he rolled his eyes back, closed them, and focused simply on sounds and touch and taste.

A soft gasp escaped the parted lips and Aziraphale had to close his eyes as well, the grip on Anthony’s hair tightening in increments. He tried to part his legs more. Like his ministrations before, there was no haste in this.

Aziraphale rolled his hips forward, moaning when feeling his cock slide through the wet heat, nestled there. The conservator managed to open his eyes again, looking down and taking the scene in, every detail, every faint freckle on the nose that was almost pressed against his pelvis, the beautiful arched brows, the long lashes. He was a vision and even more sappy poetry was bubbling up in the conservator’s throat, making him swallow it down and moaning instead.

There weren't so many delicious sounds as usual and one had to wonder if Aziraphale was holding back or if he was not enjoying himself.

Well, until he gripped Anthony's hair. Thank Christ. And _there_ were the moans.

Anthony focused on the devotion, on sucking and swallowing. It was crass and it was delicious and it was bliss. He felt happy to be used for this moment, as he had used Aziraphale. To give him this moment to sink into himself, to chase his pleasures. Even as he swallowed again, Anthony finally looked up to see Aziraphale's flushed face and moaned happily up at him.

They weren’t harsh thrust, more like a lazy wave that was rolling onto the shore. The heat inside his belly was building nonetheless, hadn’t been completely diminished after he had come down here.

After some more languid motions there were more tension in his thighs now, a hitch in his voice. His hands were turning into fists now, pulling on the strands they were grasping.

“Ha...close. ‘M close, love.”

Anthony simply smoothed his hands out on Aziraphale and bobbed his head back and down in a nod, a thanks for the warning, preparing himself to take. He had showered so he wasn't as keen to sit back and have Aziraphale give him a facial. It might get in his hair. Instead, he swallowed around him to take his seed directly.

One more roll of his hips and Aziraphale stilled, his thighs shaking with his orgasm, his hands holding on to that red mane. It wasn’t a loud kind of orgasm. Aziraphale released with a breathy moan that could have been Anthony’s name, but his head fell back, and it was directed to the ceiling.

He could feel his body going limp, knees giving in a little, so Aziraphale released one hand from Anthony’s hair to get a hold on the counter, trying to stay upright. Similar to Anthony this morning, he felt the urge to kiss, so he slightly tucked in the hair.

“Please, come up here.”

Only after swallowing every thick, bitter drop. Anthony prided himself, his greedy need, and swallowed quickly that he barely tasted on the back of his throat, pulling off slowly as Aziraphale went soft in his mouth. His conservator deserved a messy kiss, but he got one first at the tip of his cock, followed by a hasty tongue, licking everything clean as he could manage.

A decade earlier he would have risen from the floor with ease. As it were, his knees screamed, and he groaned as he grabbed the counter by Aziraphale's hips and dragged himself up with a final little grunt.

"Well, hello," he muttered down at Aziraphale with a crooked smile. Anthony pet his cheek and pressed their foreheads together, that slight pause to catch his breath, before he tilted his head and kissed him. Kissed him again, even, with his fingers resting on Aziraphale's pulse, breaking up their smooth, deepening kisses with eye-crinkling laughter.

Aziraphale easily joined in, resting his hands on Anthony’s shoulders now.

“What is going on in that chaotic mind of yours that you’re laughing after giving me an exceptional blowjob in the kitchen?” He asked, his voice shaking with contained amusement as he tried to still his own laughter. Anthony could be rather infectious when showing joy and affections so openly. It was such a contrast to his aloof and “I don’t give a shit” attitude he gave everyone else. And Aziraphale was one of the lucky few to experience him like this, so open and, dare he say, happy.

He kissed the tip of the others nose, feeling a little unsteady, still. Anthony scrunched his nose at the kiss. What a delightfully innocent gesture. It tickled Anthony, not just from the touch but the emotion of the gesture.

"Breakfast," he answered, chasing after Aziraphale's lips as best he could. "Just thinking about breakfast. It was a real mouthful this morning. Thank you for serving me. Or me serving you?" He giggled again and held the back of Aziraphale's head as they nuzzled together. "Dunno. Loved that. Toss that cold shit down the drain, let's just get something in town at Fiona's cafe and then we'll go shopping. Think we earned it."

Anthony dropped his hands and they stopped on Aziraphale's hips again.

"Suppose we'll get your trousers. But I keep a pretty strict 'no slacks, no pants,' rule in this cabin, you know. Let you off the hook earlier for your convenience. But." He stamped Aziraphale with another smile-stained kiss.

What a wonderful idea! It made the blonde man wiggle in delight and he laughed into the kiss, holding onto this incredible human a little longer.

After far too many kisses and caresses, they finally got out of the cottage and made it into town. It was almost a miracle, really.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel and Beez get closer. AND get closer to getting Aziraphale and Crowley!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to say this 100% affectionately, but Aziraphale and Crowley have Over-Dramatic-Dumb-Bitch disease and I love them.
> 
> Also this chapter is like 11k, so. ...Huzzah!

It was just after Mary had finished putting Uriel’s report on Gabriel’s desk. She took her post at her desk, feeling accomplished, and was adjusting her office chair to help with that pesky pain in her lower back when a shadow fell upon her. Naturally she rose to see who it might be that decided to hover, and looked up into the pale eyes of Beez Prince, who had a mocking smile stitched to their face. It plucked at the corners of Mary’s mind, unnerving without being overbearing.

It seemed that Prince had changed from their usual attire. Of course the same suit slacks but their blazer was long, nearly a dinner jacket with those coat tails. Worse, they wore a deep v-neck that plunged to their navel, showing off more of that sickly pale skin. It was outwardly distracting and the way Prince’s black nails kept playing with the hemline over their ribs, they knew exactly what they were doing.

“Morning, Mrs. Carpenter.” Their words were sharp, a lower register, poured out like oil. Mary was not at all impressed by their demeanor. Of course she wasn’t brought on yesterday, so she kept a calm, distant exterior while Prince did their very best to loom. Surprisingly, they were quite good at it. One forgot how tall they really were when they looked like this. “Is Mr. Gabriel in his office? I need to talk to him.”

“Hello Mx. Prince,” Mary answered with her own practiced smile. “I do wish you had made an appointment beforehand. I’m afraid Inspector Gabriel is busy now. Perhaps you would like to come back another time?”

Beez’s left eye twitched as they looked past Mary to the office.

“That’s unfortunate,” Beez drawled, forcing themselves to talk slower, as unto a child. “Seeing as I have new information about the forgery case and all that. Be a sweetheart and ask if there’s some space in his schedule I can squeeze in, yeah?”

Mary inhaled sharply, their lips pursed. She took the receiver and pressed the button for Gabriel’s office line.

After meeting with the director and covering informant reports on the Izmisleno case, Gabriel was waiting for report over from Uriel. To pass the time, he double-checked Sandalphon's work, tracking down the itemized lists.

The light going off on his phone grabbed his attention and he pulled it off the receiver without looking up.

"Mary, if you have Uriel's file, I would really appreciate it if you brought it in. I promise I'll get up from my desk after that meeting with Harper."

“Yes sir, got it right here. And there’s Prince, saying they have some new information on the forgery case. They’re standing in front of me...”

The subject in question gave the women a shit-eating grin. Mary had to hold back to not roll her eyes.

“Should I bring them in? The report? And Prince?”

"Oh?" He shifted the phone from one shoulder to the other, pinning it against his cheek.

Prince was here. Lucky him? No, that strange feeling in his chest was…he was probably hungry. Lunch. He probably needed lunch. They probably had some interesting information, or they were going to just annoy him. Would do better to do that in his office, yes, definitely.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thank you, Mary."

The secretary hung up and sighed. She had hoped for her boss to be too busy for this annoying person. Really, they were as pestering as a stubborn fly that was always buzzing around your head in the most inconvenient of times. Mary stood up, taking the files.

“Please. Follow me.”

Not one minute later there was a knock and both of them came in. Mary placed the file on the desk, shooting her boss a look before turning around. As she was almost out of the door, Beez addressed her again. “Oh, would you be so kind and bring me a coffee? That would be perfect, sweetie, thank you.”

Mary pressed an “of course” out between gritted teeth and closed the door. Now they were alone for a moment.

"Oh you...she doesn't...."

Gabriel had stood when they entered the office and now, he was floundering, gesturing to the closed door and for Beez to take a seat.

“So, Mr. Gabriel. How are investigations going? Anything new since our last meeting?”

"I. No," he finally answered, sitting down at last and took in Mx. Prince's...attire. His gaze pinned to the exposed portion of chest a moment just on the other side of decency. "In fact, my AC implied you might have intel for me."

Beez was visibly pleased when they watched Gabriel’s odd, bright eyes drop to their cleavage. Exactly as they hoped. If their hand tugged on their lapel, it was simply to scratch the skin and not keep his attention. If they stared at his frame, it was simply to assess him and not ogle him back while he was distracted. This was business. Simple as that.

"I do,” Beez purred. They sat forward – dear God, the gap in their shirt threatening to expose too much – and laced their fingers, placing them firmly on Gabriel’s desk. A swarm of cockroaches escaping their sleeves would not be so unexpected and Gabriel was strangely enamored by the thought. “Your forgeries were acquired through Mr. Crowley, same as the one in the Dinah Gallery, yes? Came from somewhere in Latvia, as far as I know... Doesn't this sound a little suspicious to you?"

“Suspicious?”

“Mr. Crowley,” they continued. Their thumbs turned over each other, slow and deliberate, holding Gabriel’s gaze longer. "Seems like all the cases relate to that flash bastard. Why is that, do you think? You know he’s a painter too, don’t you?”

“I—”

“Maybe he's on the run and Mr. Fell? Was it? The conservator. Could be he’s his accomplice...."

The door opened again, and Mary stomped in, setting the coffee down on the table a little too forcefully before storming out, her head high. Beez was pleased with this outcome. They took the mug and sipped on it. Uhg, it was black. Point to that secretary bitch.

"Thank you, Mary," Gabriel called after her, resigned to the fact that he was definitely going to have to apologize as soon as this meeting was done.

Gabriel squared his shoulders and looked Beez straight on.

"The potential has come up. Seems odd, considering our conservator's squeaky clean record. But, uh, Crowley...."

He looked down at his desk again, briefly touching the manila folder. There was that one booking that got removed from Anthony Crowley’s official record, but he still had the second on file. Charged with robbery and one count of battery. Didn't paint him in a pretty light, despite how often the artist claimed he only painted others as such. With that stupid smug grin on his face.

"It's crossed my mind," Gabriel muttered quietly, before he looked up at Beez again. "Why? What do you know?"

They sipped on the coffee for what seemed like eternity, making slurping sounds and looking right at the Inspector. Finally, Beez lowered the mug again, cocking one bushy brow.

“Rumor has it that he might be in direct contact with the forger. Distributing his work and all, you see? Say...aren’t conservators versed in the craft of drawing as well? You would think someone in that craft would be… _meticulous_. Well-versed in many crafts, if they’re worth their salt.”

This was a bread crumb trail on the wrong direction but hopefully, it would give Beez the chance to get some information about their whereabouts out of Gabriel. And, as soon as they would have it, they may have a head start to get those bastards and bring them to the boss. Only one of them was important to the Devil. Beez just had to make sure Interpol brought in the wrong one.

Gabriel pursed his lips, tapping the desk ahead of him. He really, really wanted to open the file now. But it wasn't right to show off any evidence in front of Beez, no matter how tempting their words, their outfit, their....

"If you're implying anything, Mx. Prince, I do suggest you just come out and say it. I think that would be easier for both of us. For all of us, in the long run."

And it helped Gabriel decide if he should feed these poor fools to the wolves or not.

Beez sucked on their teeth while slowly sliding back into the chair, draping themselves effortlessly, one hand stuck to their belt. They looked the inspector right in the eye.

"We had some business with Crowley in the past. I did not remember at first, but that punk caused some problems, even back then. He tried to scam us but I thought he'd learned his lesson. Honestly, thought nothing of him. Crumpled under the first threat. He doesn’t have the brains to lead an operation like this, you know.

“The other part with that...Fell is just speculation, I must admit, but doesn’t it slot into the picture? Both have enough connections in the world of collectors, museums and galleries. And really, no one can be this immaculate."

They spit the last word and surged forward, their face only centimeters from the inspector's. Beez braced themselves with their arms on the table, one finger brushing one of Gabriel's that was sitting on the file.

"They think they're clever,” they whispered and was pleased to see Gabriel didn’t flinch an inch. “Trying to play both of us. Maybe they’re already gone, on their way to the Caribbean or something. Wouldn’t that be just tragic."

Well that was fundamentally wrong. Unless they had gotten a flight last night.

Though Beez Prince didn't seem to know this.

Gabriel could smell their smoky cologne, could see the striations in their clear blue irises. And, after a moment to let them "intimidate" him – more exciting than it should be – Gabriel just smiled.

"They do think they're clever," Gabriel answered evenly, waiting for them to sink back. "I'll give you that. And your concerns, Mx. Prince...are duly noted." They _should_ sink back. It was ridiculously easy to almost graze their noses together. Their cheeks! "And I'll be sure to check for any pings on the radar if they've tried to leave the country."

Which, again...he had talked to them yesterday. Should he call them? He should call them. Absolutely.

They did not budge an inch, holding that gaze. How could his eyes seem so purplish? Maybe it was a weird mix with contact lenses...

Beez gave themselves a mental shake. They’d done enough. Planted a seed of doubt, hopefully, and stirred the Inspector into action. Call up Crowley and Fell. Or, if not, well, Beez would have to tail the Inspector Jon Gabriel. Which would be bothersome for sure.

Finally, they drew back, straightening as much as their posture allowed.

"I zzzzee," they said in a drawl, slipping again. "Well, I just hope that this information might help you. I'm always eager to lend a helping hand, you know." They shoved their hands into their pockets and gave an uninterested shrug. "Guess I'll let you continue your work. We're both busy people after all, Mr. Gabriel."

"Indeed, Mx. Prince." He stood and showed them the door directly behind them. "Be sure to schedule an appointment next time?"

He could do this sarcasm thing as well. They were not the sole proprietor to it. Though, he did hope, honestly, that they would set an appointment. It would mentally prepare him for their arrival and a chance to discuss...business and things with them.

"I surely won't," they said with a grin and walked out.

Mary stared daggers after them as they walked to the elevator. As soon as the doors closed shut behind them, the secretary turned her head, glaring at her boss.

"Seriously?!"

He gave an apologetic grimace, retreating to hi desk again and flipped open his folder at last.

"Can I get you something for lunch?" he called out in hopes it would somewhat smooth over the mistreatment.

Even as he asked it, he was pouring over the contents Uriel had dredged up for him, turning a document over and tugging grainy copies of photographs out, one by one. Already, his hand was reaching, and he picked up his phone, dialing his conservator contact this time, as he was having bigger trust issues with that Mr. Crowley.

"Sushi! And not that cheap stuff, I mean truly Japanese sushi from that little place in Covent Gardens!"

Marry huffed once more and turned back to her work.

\---

Meanwhile, the two involuntary partners-in-crime-turned-lovers had had a wonderful breakfast that turned into brunch, innuendos included.

One would expect people to start dropping like flies from the second-hand embarrassment of seeing these two cuddly and cute together. Knowing Mr. Crowley, it was a sensation that he had brought someone new with him, after all this time. And the someone like... _that_. Millie, who had been working at the little restaurant for five years could have sworn that Mr. Crowley would be more in for the equally edgy type and was surprised to see him steer away from his usual, er, meals.

Laurence, who worked in the kitchen since his wife had opened the place, thought that this old-fashioned teddy bear was the perfect match. Opposite attractions and all that. Either way, they could almost see the sappy hearts twirling around Mr. Crowley and his special friend’s head.

After brunch, there was a bit of shopping. While stocking up on essentials for scones and other activities Aziraphale did not miss to pop into the bookshop as well. Only a brief browsing of course.

The weather was a bit more friendly today, with more sunshine peeking through the clouds. There could have been a nice walk on the beach again, to round up this perfect day, but Anthony had slid up behind Aziraphale outside the bookshop and simply placed his hand on his hip and Aziraphale knew they needed to get back to somewhere more private. Their bags were brought in rather hastily and dropped on the counter. Aziraphale pulled the artist in by the lapels of his coat, engaging him in hungry kisses while trying to get rid of as many clothes as fast as possible.

They may have some cream or butter in one of the bags, these ridiculous burlap things that Anthony kept in his car not at all because they were better for the environment than using plastic or whatever stupid reason people might come up with, but because of both the aesthetic and they didn't look like trash in the boot of his antique monster of a vehicle.

Either way, didn't matter. It so didn’t matter. It was the last thing to matter, in fact. Whatever was in there could spoil as far as Anthony was concerned, who was happy to have the door closed as he turned and met Aziraphale's eager mouth with his own. Truly, it was the day of horny teenagers. He was not even upset by it. It thrilled him, digging something out of his chest that made him giddy and eager and, hell, like he was feeling the world again. He wanted to put on a comfortable cotton shirt. Probably not even black! And coil around Aziraphale. He wanted to sit and watch reruns of old television shows with him, set up a hammock for him to sunbathe when summer came back and read in while he worked in the garden, got half naked by noon, and figured the logistics of hammock sex before three. He wanted to take him out and show him off. He wanted to get these stupidly endearing khakis off him this instant and have a repeat of breakfast this morning before they even started up the stairs, since sex should definitely happen on the bed. With the supplies. Holy hell he could finally seat himself in this plush bastard of a conservator and—

"Whuh?" Anthony touched Aziraphale's pocket instead of his zipper, grinning into Aziraphale's hair. "Your pockets ringing or are you just happy to see me?"

It was cheesy and he did not give one iota of a fuck about it, still laughing, still riding the general high of being with his....

Didn't even give himself a moment to worry about that justification of a title yet! Nope! Kissed Aziraphale instead, distracting both from the ringing cellular. Aziraphale tried to ignore it, he really did. The lips on his, the scrape of teeth and tongue helped, but _Moonlight Sonata_ still clanged and clamored and Aziraphale frowned into the heated kiss, glancing down.

“Just - Ah, one moment, dearest. Let me check who’ll be ignored for—”

He fiddled the phone out of his picket. Quite the challenge with Anthony’s lithe body pressed against his and, oh lord, a very interested inhabitant of those tight trousers. No, Aziraphale had to compose himself for a second and glanced at the display. Only to groan in response, and not the kind someone might suggest in such a state.

“It’s Gabriel,” he said between another kiss, glaring at the screen.

He thought about just swiping to the red button or leaving the to phone ring but perhaps it was not the cleverest idea to ignore an Interpol Inspector in their kind of situation.

“I- ah, Anthony! I should get that...”

"He can leave a message," Anthony muttered, but considered they'd be interrupted shortly when _his_ phone went off if they ignored Aziraphale's. He pursed his lips and dropped his head to Aziraphale's shoulder, lifting his hands away from the waistband.

They were dangerously close to it going to voicemail. And the longer it rang, the longer Gabriel assumed they had done exactly what Beez had accused them of doing. His scowl became more pronounced as the phone continued to ring.

Aziraphale sighed, took a deep breath and swiped to the green button on this display.

“Yes?” he asked, still a little breathless.

Even with Gabriel on the phone, Aziraphale refused to let them part and made this clear by resting his left-over hand on the small of the artist’s back. Hopefully, they could make this a short call.

"Thank Christ," Gabriel muttered towards the ceiling. "Right, Fell? It's Jon Gabriel."

“Yes,” Aziraphale answered.

Anthony rolled his eyes. As Anthony was close, running his hand as innocently as possible up Aziraphale's shirt – how innocent can one man be, honestly – he had to suppress a snort behind his hand. Like they didn't have caller ID. And the man worked as an Interpol Investigator!

"Checking in on your whereabouts,” Gabriel continued. “You and Crowley. Making sure you haven't run off to some deserted island somewhere." He tried to sound agreeable. Hell, he was smiling even though Aziraphale couldn't see him. A habit to make his voice stay peppy instead of betraying what he really felt.

"Oh? No, we're still where we were all the time, no impromptu honeymo—journey to the Caribbean or something."

Aziraphale bit his bottom lip and blushed. What a terrible and utterly sappy slip up. He shot Anthony a look and mouthed _'Don't'_.

After clearing his throat to find composure again, he continued.

"Is this the only reason you called? An- _Mister_ Crowley and I were just in the, uh, middle of something. Important. In the middle of an important chess match, yes."

Chess match. Gabriel sighed quietly to himself, settling back in his chair. Thank God they weren't fucking or this would be way more complicated. Trust Aziraphale to be a complete nerd.

"Right, well." Gabriel shifted again and rubbed his chin as he tried to compile his thoughts. "Listen. I need you two back in the city ASAP. Our buddy Beez Prince has been buzzing around and I think they might be going after you. Both, at this point, but, really its...." _Anthony_. But that didn't matter to voice it out loud. "I've some new intel about our Forger and I would appreciate your assistance in the matter. You've been invaluable so far, Fell. Truly."

And if Gabriel could help extricate the conservator out of the crosshairs, as it were, that might be beneficial for all of them. He really was remarkable at his job. He'd be invaluable to Gabriel's team in the future. And if Anthony proved innocent, well, they'd figure out how to get him out of trouble too. Maybe Aziraphale was a good influence on him. Playing chess and all that.

He wanted to object right away as their prompt return was ordered. Aziraphale had already opened his mouth, while his hand was slowly sliding down to the cute little rump he wanted to get a squeeze of when he froze. Aziraphale tensed up, straightening his posture.

“New...intel? About the _forger_?”

Maybe this Prince person had talked to Gabriel, showed him the forgery piece in progress. The way the Inspector was suddenly buttering him up, praising his work and all was an indication.

Oh, he cursed his stupid observance and obsession for details. If he would have know what kind of situation his own pernickety oils brought both of them he would never – wait. He would have. He would have done anything to get to here again, knowing what has developed between them now, wouldn’t he? That was also the reason he couldn’t let Anthony walk right into a trap. Aziraphale swallowed, his throat feeling dry and constricted.

“But can you guarantee safety for the both of us? They’re still running around there, Prince and their cronies, free and without a charge. What certainties are you able to propose to us?”

 _Us_. It did not go unnoticed by both parties surrounding Aziraphale.

Gabriel tapped an index finger on the folder in front of him with, frankly, some peculiar and damning evidence.

"I'll see what I can do," he answered at length, as tactful as possible. "Can you be back in the city tonight? At the very least let me know your locations so I can have someone meet you there." Probably himself, though he'd be stupid not to bring an agent with him.

Anthony, for his part, had stilled practically to stone. He stayed next to Aziraphale because his hand was on Anthony's back and the two of them had been about three seconds away from fully undressing, but it was the proverbial cold water splashed across his body. At most he could do was tremble and, really, even that was on a lockdown as Anthony strained to hear.

 _He knows_ , he mouthed to Aziraphale and started to pull back, gripping his hair. He knows! He called Aziraphale first. He was asking Aziraphale to come back to the city. He was negotiating safety for Aziraphale and now it was the conservator who was bartering for Anthony and holy shit, he knows. He knows!

Seeing Anthony starting to spiral gave Aziraphale the determination he needed for such a negotiation. He had to pull himself together, for both their sakes. His eyes were set on the artist as he spoke. He shifted the phone so he could hold Anthony’s chin and make him look, staring into those panicked golden eyes.

“We agree to a meeting. Here. I think going back to London is too risky. I…. No. There’s some information _we_ are able to provide. In exchange for safety. For Anthony and me.”

The conservator’s voice was calm, like standing in the eye of a storm. There was no time nor space for fretting and dreadful thoughts. One of them had to come up with something and as it were, Aziraphale had decided to use that nitpicking of his to tell the Inspector about the real Rubens. It was something, he had seen it with his own eyes and knew about its origin and rightful place. This should be enough. This had to be enough.

He would not come out of this mess without Anthony, especially not now.

"Right." Gabriel licked the back of his teeth before he finally nodded. "Up at the cottage, right?”

Anthony bristled again. How did Gabriel know about the cottage?

“Alright,” Gabriel continued. “I'll call you when I'm on the road. We'll, uh, we'll get this sorted out. I think. I'll be in touch." He hung up the phone because he was distracted in taking his own notes instead of worrying about saying a proper goodbye.

Anthony laughed, clearly covering over his tormented emotions, and held Aziraphale's elbow. When he dropped his head, despite Aziraphale’s best attempt to keep his chin up, his sunglasses fell from his hairline and knocked into his nose. He was thankful for the shades.

"You and me, huh?" he asked, snagging Aziraphale's deliberate word choices. "If they make any sort of deal, you should really take it."

Aziraphale, who was always annoyed when one neglected manners, immediately had started to type a quick message, suggesting they would do better to meet in the village when Anthony's distressed laughter interrupted his thoughts. He looked at Anthony with a serious expression, but he could feel his eyes welling up a little and if he wouldn't speak in a second, things might become blubbering and embarrassing.

"I won't. I'm net selling you out, Anthony. We'll get out if this as we got in this mess in the first place. _Together_."

He might be almost overwhelmed by all kinds of emotions, but this idea was settled, as set as in tablets of stone.

Closing the gap between them didn't need as much as half a step. Aziraphale took Anthony's face in his hands, looking straight ahead at him and ignoring his own reflection in the blasted shades.

"You get this in that thick skull of yours. I won't leave you behind. I – I would just not be able to—"

Anthony immediately cupped Aziraphale's face in both hands and kissed him. Right back to the counter, nearly bending him backwards. It was dry, damn near chaste, but it was urgent and warm and seemed so necessary at the moment that he forgot to breathe. It was thanks and apology together.

"I love you," he whispered, their mouths still too close, the confession laid plain in hot breath on Aziraphale's skin. He didn't give himself a chance to worry he had said it, nor a chance to fall further into the despair of his previous thoughts, and kissed Aziraphale once more before he wrapped his long arms around Aziraphale's shoulders and hugged him up close, as though to say _well I'm not letting go either, so there's that._

Aziraphale yielded immediately, letting himself be pressed against wherever Anthony needed him to be. Everything that mattered was that press of lips and bodies, the only certain thing right now, an anchor amidst a stormy sea.

And when those three words were spoken, the conservator’s knees gave in a little, a sound between a sobbing gasp and a happy sigh. Under normal circumstances, this would be too fast. Telling someone you loved them after some months of pining and barely any time in anything resembling a proper relationship was a lot in Aziraphale’s opinion, but not when you were standing before the decision of whether or not to surrender his newly found lover and dear friend to the police or try to run away together and have said police and the gangsters chasing them for who _knows_ how long, oh dear Lord!

No. it seemed like there was no better moment for such confessions.

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Anthony’s torso to desperately cling to him. His hands fisted into the expensive shirt and he kissed and kissed and kissed until his lungs were burning with the need for air.

“Anthony I- oh God, I love you as well...”

There was a breath of a moment that really might shatter into a sob, if Anthony didn't swallow down the lump of emotion in his throat, if Aziraphale didn’t close his eyes and press their foreheads together. Not that he was burying everything, every need or want or even admission, but it wouldn't do to cry over the matter. No, they both cut themselves off from that, at least, and Anthony gave one more...one more little kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, then stepped backwards and tugged on Aziraphale's fingers. Guiding him. Needing him.

They started backwards, away from forgotten groceries, towards the entryway of the kitchen, angling towards the stairs. Anthony didn't let go of Aziraphale's hands, nor, by some miracle, did he look backwards to where he was going. He stepped slowly, carefully, and deliberately.

They made their way up the stairs, no bumping or tripping involved, stopping just before the bed. The golden hues of the afternoon sun illuminated the room, casting the small jungle in the room in long shadows.

Aziraphale let go of Anthony’s hands, only to raise his own up to the beautiful face of the man he adored. He reached out so cautiously, so tender as if the material may crumble under his fingertips, as he lifted the shades slowly.

“There you are,” Aziraphale whispered with the softest smile. In this light, Anthony’s eyes were like a fire, painted by Turner. All the golden and almost orange hues in them were so captivating, too easy to fall into them.

In that moment, Anthony just felt like an exposed nerve, any touch or grace or glance too much that he had to laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. At least it wasn't the strange desperately sad laugh as earlier. This was much kinder than that.

With a bit of a slow twirl, Anthony braced Aziraphale back against the bed, his calves pressed into it. He was glad he had made the bed after their morning, simply a routine habit, and guided Aziraphale to sit before he climbed into his lap and kissed him down to the smooth bedding.

"We're going to have sex," he announced quietly, still smiling. "If that's not clear."

It made him laugh again, because it was a bit silly and a lot more thrilling and he enjoyed stating it plainly just to see Aziraphale's reactions.

Aziraphale made an artistic attempt to be surprised and shocked. It was almost worthy of a nomination for a golden raspberry award, more so as he stared to giggle, and answered, “I had no idea.”

The giggling helped. It was the dam that helped keep them from clinging, from succumbing to despair, to tears and kisses too harsh, too rushed. Whatever may happen after today, this would be a good memory. A wonderful one.

A soft hand came around to the nape of Anthony’s neck, pressing him softly down so Aziraphale was able to brush their noses together, lips ghosting over each other once more, to breath the other in.

“I’m all yours.”

It was a promise in more than one way.

Aziraphale slid his free hand down Anthony’s long back until he reached the waistband. Azirpahale tugged that expensive shirt out of his trousers and rucked it up slowly, exposing the wonderful pale skin on its way that was painted in the gold of the slowly setting sun.

As he arched his back to give Aziraphale an easier angle to work with, Anthony settled on Aziraphale's hips. He hovered, brushing haphazard kisses and the tip of his nose along Aziraphale's cheek. He focused on Aziraphale's shirt. The same one he had picked out this late morning.

There was no rushing. There was a time constraint somewhere in their future, yes, but this was savored. This was cherished. This was loved.

Once Aziraphale's shirt was undone, Anthony slipped his hands up across his stomach, his chest, smoothing across his collarbones and arched to kiss a wandering pattern on his chest.

"Up here for me, Angel," he whispered, and scooted back, helping Aziraphale sit up so he could be properly divested of his shirt, which was abandoned behind him.

Given the new position, Aziraphale brushed his mouth over the long and slightly stretched neck. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass, to map out every inch, memorize every reaction, however fleeting it might be. Brushes turned into proper kisses, soon followed by nibbles. He only drew back when he pulled on Anthony’s undershirt, so he could get it over his head.

He couldn’t help but sigh, his hands wandering over the chiseled chest, fingers brushing over soft pink buds and down over the navel. He mapped every freckle and hair, the protrusion hip bones with the hint of inked scales.

“You’re rapture.”

Anthony shivered and covered one of Aziraphale's hands on his side.

"Pressss...harder."

And he chuckled, guiding Aziraphale's fingers back over his skin in a way that wouldn't invariably tickle him.

And then they were holding each other again, like another spark had been set off. Anthony was back at Aziraphale's mouth, licking in, taking him back, threading his fingers through soft curls. Worse yet (or better...much better), the angle was taunting. Anthony started to rock his hips, grinding against Aziraphale while he mumbled his half-formed, "luvyou," and, "right there," and "'m yours, I'm yours. I am yours."

The request was pursued but not without an amused chuckle that was only silenced by kisses and the press of their groins. Aziraphale answered each proclomation with a soft gasp and moan.

All those displays of affection made his head spin. Aziraphale desperately wanted to be closer, impossible so, melting into the other at one point just to share a heartbeat, the hitching breath. He was not able to find words of his own – how very ironic – too overwhelmed by the clash of feelings threatening to take him under. Instead, he latched onto that neck again, sucking a mark into it, making clear that, yes indeed, this fine specimen was his now.

And even that wasn’t enough. Aziraphale managed to sneak his deft hands between them and started to fumble with the button on Anthony’s absurd jeans while kissing and licking apologetically over the bruise he had just made.

“Please...just – more.”

More and more. And more! Anthony agreed with another roll of his hips, a desperate moan of approval. He would nod if his neck were not currently occupied by one Aziraphale Fell, whom he was clinging to like they might suddenly tip over and crash through the floor. Or lift off the bed with how blissful he already felt.

"Zip," he started and interrupted himself by kissing Aziraphale, then sat back quickly.

If he stayed too close, they'd keep getting distracted and it was a delicious distraction, sure, but he needed to get these damn jeans off. He laughed at their combined hands on his fly, and he snagged his sunglasses when he spotted them on the bedding, tossing them over towards the pillows so they wouldn't get bent or crushed or crack during their ( _love making_ ) time together. Even just the button undone by Azliraphale's hand and the teeth coming undone of the zipper was a relief that made Anthony shiver and sigh.

"Need to stretch you for me, Angel. Need to...." He gripped Aziraphale's wrist. "Lube."

It was hard to come back down and be cognizant enough again while watching every tooth of the zipper opening in anticipation. That single word however got some gears turning again, which lead to Azirapahle groaning angrily.

“Downstairs...in the grocery bag,” he said slowly, leaning his head against the deliciously exposed collar bone. “Me or you?”

"Me," Anthony answered with a whisper. He kissed Aziraphale goodbye, even a short goodbye, which took as long as it would have to just run downstairs. But another touch and they'd never get out of this damn bed, would they? And they didn't have time not to...not to have each other. Like this. Possibly.

Anthony shook his head and pulled away reluctantly, his fingers trailing down Aziraphale's legs as he slipped away, practically hurling himself down the stairs. While he was rummaging furiously through the groceries, Aziraphale's phone pinged with a short message from their Interpol acquaintance:

[sent: 18:39] This is Jon. Running late at the office. Have the address to the cottage.

[sent 18:40] ETA around 8. Do reconsider. What we discussed. And concerns with C. Perhaps we can chat?

[sent 18:40] I have Information. If you do too, it would be in your best interest to corroborate.

The phone, rescued from his pocket, proved the be the messenger of doom and Aziraphale considered to just throw that blasted device out of the window. But this would not help either of them. So, he started typing. Perhaps the fastest he'd ever managed in his life.

[sent 18:43] Hello Mr. Gabriel. I suggest relocating this to a public place, King's Head pub in town, just for safety measures. I’ll send you the coordinates.

[sent 18:44] I refuse any negotiation without Mr. Crowley. Our information will be provided when meeting. Drive safe.

Was it possible to sound bitchy over text? Aziraphale hoped so, though he was afraid he didn’t get the tone right. He turned all vibrations and sounds off for the moment and set an alarm, placing the phone on the nightstand and stripped out of his khakis.

No, this rude interruption had not tampered his desire for closeness and love making. It only enhanced it quite dramatically, knowing they had a ticking time limit now.

Surely, Inspector Gabriel would not drive as insanely as his dear Anthony, who he heard rushing back up the stairs. There was the rest of the rush hour to be considered and, yes, this should be manageable.

As Anthony was setting foot into the lofty bedroom again, Aziraphale looked up at him with what he hoped would be a soft smile, sitting on the bed now fully bare.

"I took the liberty to expedite things a tad bit. I hope you don't mind."

Anthony was doing that thing where he clung to the banister, trying not to pant to show how winded he was after sprinting up the stairs. He gripped their bottle of lube – oh yes, theirs, already had it in his head, didn't he? – and stared, his mouth going slack at the sight before him.

"Mind?" Anthony crossed the short space of floor, shoving down his pants and stepping out of them quickly on his way. "Hardly mind. Don't mind a thing. Ever. C'mere."

And in the next breath, Anthony had himself exactly where he was before, thankfully removed of everything but the underpants and the socks, the lube yet in hand where he was warming it with his body temperature. He was breathless for a completely different reason now, stealing even more kisses, like the two hadn't seen each other for months.

The speed with which Anthony stepped out of his drainpipes, one had to wonder if he hadn’t greased them in the kitchen downstairs. But Aziraphale did not have time to dwell on that thought any longer, since there was finally the other’s heat again, pressed against the all the exposed skin, ready to be singed.

Aziraphale’s hands wandered restless over the body. Gabriel’s message had affected him, if he wanted or not, and maybe there was a tinge of desperation in the way he clawed at Anthony, afraid that there was not enough time to enjoy this, to properly feel each other, making memories.

“Please,” he panted into the hot mouth of the artist, pressing closer. “Anthony, I need you. I crave for you – just...please, darling.”

Anthony wasn't going to shy away from the sting of it, from the ache of it. For him, it was the same, the desperation to be together, even if it was not paired with the imminent arrival of Mr. Gabriel. And, for his part, he touched to soothe, to telegraph his understanding and his desires and to ease Aziraphale back onto the mattress, popping the top of the tube with his teeth.

"How long's it been again? Before me? Wanna make sure I stretch you right, Angel," Anthony said, still a little out of breath. Fuck the stairs, actually, but, a necessary evil that they would get past. "You'll tell me you're alright?"

As he asked, as he teased with his mouth, he settled between Aziraphale's legs and dragged his fingers up the back of his thigh, guiding his leg over Anthony's shoulder. He dribbled lube on the bedding – should they have a towel? They should have a towel...no. Fuck that, no time. Forget it, he could do the washing...no, fuck that, focus! – while he dribbled it onto his fingers and giggled at himself. He wiped at the excess on the bedding and he rubbed his fingers together.

And, finally, while Anthony lipped at Aziraphale's kneecap, he pressed his fingers down the inseam of Aziraphale's leg, thumbing at the soft flesh, and slightly spread him with two fingers while he rubbed lube onto the entrance, barely pressing in yet. His eyes, damnably exposed, damnably gold eyes were fixed on his lover, hooded and happy and expectant and pupils blown out as far as they could dream to go.

If this wasn't the hottest thing Aziraphale had seen in the longest time. It was a short thing of convenience, not his usual way of showing-off but it made him blush, even after all that they'd been doing since yesterday.

Aziraphale's breath hitched slightly from the reverent attention his legs got, the way he was looked at. So much desire, so much love. Almost unbearable.

"Mhh, over a year with someone. About – ha – two weeks by myself. B-but the difference in size is obvious."

He smiled up at that gorgeous man, who thought him to be beautiful and desirable. Always concerned about the Aziraphale’s well-being.

"I will and so should you."

And then there was only sensation to focus on and golden eyes fixed on his. It was a little strange for a short moment, to feel someone else touching him, but the need crashed through his concerns and Aziraphale rolled his hips, his body pressing against those fingers. Aziraphale moaned, eyes hooded but still glued on Anthony. He just wanted to keep seeing him, making sure he enjoyed every bit as much as he did.

"God, yes. More."

A plead, a demand. He pressed himself more against the fingers, feeling the tips slipping in, stretching the rim with that short burn that soon made way to a nicer sensation. As soon as Anthony's long and dexterous fingers were deeper, Aziraphale did not hold back, trying to fuck himself on the digits.

It should be kinda funny. It was definitely more hot than funny, though, and Anthony, overcome with so many emotions, swallowed them down. He tucked his knees in against Aziraphale's bum, giving over what he felt Aziraphale crave and cry for. Or, at least, he would do his best to make him cry for. So sweet and lovely, too.

"Like...riding a bicycle." Anthony's voice went deeper than he expected, digging down where he felt himself stirring eagerly to replace his fingers.

Anthony teased in and took his time, thrusting them in and out, spreading Aziraphale open, letting him warm up to the sensation. He thumbed up, reaching to pad at the underside of Aziraphale's balls as he hooked his fingers inside his lover.

Oh there it was, that first spark of pure electricity that zapped through his body. It made Aziraphale’s Rubenesque body arch up a little, a higher pitched _Ah!_ in excited answer. God, how he had missed this. It was one thing when you did it yourself, also nice and goal-driven, but being prepared by someone else, seen to so affectionately? A million times better. More satisfying.

Aziraphale kept on with his small interlude of sounds of pleasure, his hips finding a steady rhythm to meet the thirst of fingers, to make them brush just-so over his prostrate to get some of those sparks but not too much to make him tip over too soon. His cock was already leaking dribbles of precum. He was quite eager since this morning. Couldn’t be helped.

But he was also feeling a craving for more touch, more point of contact. One hand reached out, just laying itself softly on the arm that was occupied with the preparation, caressing it softly as a ‘thank you for doing this’ and, ‘keep going’.

“You can...another. I think it should be fine then,” he said, biting his lip shortly after. “It’s hard to -ah- be patient, I have to admit.”

"Never took you as the patience sort anyway," Anthony admitted, biting his lip while he worked in that third finger, already anticipating what it would feel like to have Aziraphale wrapped around him. "Wouldn't have it any other way, honestly."

And it was true. Aziraphale being a bit of a hedonist was such a turn on, in unexpected ways. He wanted and he took what he wanted and to be that sure of his desires? Well, he seemed sure of his desire for Anthony, and Anthony was dizzy with warmth again over that fact. Another teasing graze, rocking his hips in against Aziraphale's thighs, Anthony knew he was losing his patience as well. He breathed deeply and bent over for a lingering, painfully gentle kiss, punctuated with a tiny whine at the back of his throat.

So much tenderness. It left Azirapahle shuddering, fanning the embers of his ardor even more. It was threatening to burst into a full-fledged fire soon and if it would burn both alive while doing so, oh let it be.

Pressing his thighs softly against the wiry frame that was Anthony, Aziraphale tried to keep him there, so close and warm, regardless of the desire to finally feel more of him inside. This could be the first and last time to do this and he would be damned if he didn’t steal every moment of love and affection. Azirapahle kissed him again, breathless but slowly, taking in his scent, his taste.

“I think I’m ready.”

For this, yes. Not for what would come after for sure but now, it was only them in this sanctuary of a private little jungle, in a cottage by the sea.

Four words could probably not sound so sweeter. Maybe, "Will you marry me?" But that would take time and to see their way out of the storm, and Anthony had already confessed once today, to jump so quickly to something else would be ludicrous.

But not unwelcomed.... Damn him. Getting sentimental in his later years. Softer.

Anthony slowly removed his fingers, wiping them idly on his thigh as he stole but three more kisses from the conservator spread out before him. They were distracted things, catching the corner of Aziraphale's mouth twice before he landed directly on the center as he fumbled blindly and finally sat back. With too much wiggling and bucking his hips up, Anthony stripped off his underpants at last and opened the top of the lube again with his teeth so he could dribble it, now colder that it had been abandoned, onto his cock. He hissed and stroked himself, adding more to Aziraphale, slightly jittery. Nerves? Excitement? Lust?

"Can't believe we almost missed this," Anthony muttered quietly to himself, thinking about the fact that they were dancing around each other, stuck on keeping themselves platonic. But, still, the moment was here and it was already more than he could hope for as Anthony braced himself against Aziraphale, holding himself in hand and rubbed the head of his cock against Aziraphale, and finally, finally, with an open, earnest little gasp, slid slowly into him.

It was always a little surprise, even when well stretched and prepared. Just a different girth and a completely different texture and hardness and good lord this already felt so good. After holding his breath for a mere second, it left Azirapahle in a needy whimper. But like before, he pressed his hips slightly upward, signaling that, yes, he was an insatiable thing and wanted all. _Now_.

“God, yes,” he hissed, his mouth curled up in a smile because finally they had this.

Aziraphale slung his legs around Anthony’s hips, hooking them over the small of his back by his ankles. It gave him a certain stability and, most importantly, he was able to nudge that lovely bastard closer.

“I can handle- handle all. Don’t you, _ah_ , hold back.”

"Know you can," Anthony answered.

It was wonderful. Aziraphale clenched down on him and he knew he could drive into him until his spine snapped.

Anthony shifted, his knees tucked in close, and reached up to snap a hold of the headboard for purchase while his other fist drove into the pillow besides Aizraphale's head. He began to pull out, letting the slow drag wind them both up until he thrusted back in, faster than before, a little extra jolt of his hips, repeating himself again. And again. His fingers were white above them on the wood, his other dragging away to grip Aziraphale's hip, helping him grind down as he picked up his pace.

Head thrown back into the pillow, Aziraphale's whole upper body arched and he keened, brows knitted together when those first harder thrusts hit just right. His eyes had shut, adjusting to the new sensation, but now, he did not dare to close them.

Feeling that need to touch again, the conservator reached up to slide his hand into the hair on Anthony's neck, grabbing some into a fistful because it seemed that Anthony liked it and hell, he wanted to give this man whatever he wanted right now. He could only offer himself, but he did so gladly, meeting all the other's movements with a desperate vigor.

He knew that their time was limited. It still threatened to take over his mind, to make him glance nervously over to the nightstand to see how much they had left. But Anthony was looking down at him with so much love, so much want, it made everything else unimportant, blurred the edges of his peripheral and his perceptions and it finally drove that damn alarm from his mind.

The hand in Anthony’s red mane tugged harder and Aziraphale just moaned and whined, feeling that fire licking up his spine.

" _Anthony_."

"Ah- _fuck_ -Azira...ziraphale." Anthony's hips jolted to a stop at the tug before he got himself under control and started up again. "Just like that, love." And he tilted his head back a little into the grip before he looked down again. Almost lost it from that gorgeous blissed-out look on Aziraphale's face.

But he was not about to do that. Oh no. This poor bastard had been too long without proper love and Anthony was going to give him everything to the last. He ignored a twinge in his lower back and scooped his hips with a sensuous roll, digging slower but deeper, practically rocking Aziraphale there on the bed. At some point his hand got too slippery and he lost his grip on Aziraphale's hip and reached up so it would join the first one on the headboard. Offered a nice stretch himself, and he could just lean his head in close enough to steal a few biting kisses between them.

And Aziraphale demanded them. It was easy with his hand in the hair and as if to apologize for the slight roughness, he had the chance to cup Anthony's face with his other hand while nibbling on his lower lip. The conservator couldn't help but groan into the other's mouth, the slow pace driving him crazy.

"Fuck. You're- hnn, even better than I imagined. And I imagined this so often Anthony, oh God, please keep going, love."

Aziraphale's legs already burned a little from their grip on his lover, but he did not dare to loosen it. Instead, he tried to nudge him even closer. He knew he was close. Everything in his abdomen started to tense up, slowly but steady. He wished to have more time, to enjoy the fullness inside even more, feeling Anthony's cock twitch slide.

"I'm not too far off...I’m not…Anthony…I…."

"What do you need, Angel?"

Anthony panted against his skin, hot and sweaty from everything, deliriously happy. He stole that moaning kiss, swallowed it down, let it burn clean through him. The urgency made him speed up a little, hoping to drive Aziraphale over the edge.

"Mm? Tell me. What do you need?”

"This!" another moan, hands twitching and tightening their grip. "You."

It was almost a sob and to let it hoover on that edge of almost, Anthony was pulled into a desperate kiss again, Aziraphale pouring every sound into him.

The hand on the artist's cheek slid down to wrap around his own cock that had already left a puddle of precum on his belly. Every extra stroke from his own hand got Aziraphale closer, thigs drawing taut, his muscles clenching around Anthony.

He did not want to break that kiss, too afraid of what he might babble on the precipice of orgasm, but that bloody body needed air, and so he pulled pack, gasping, digging his fingers into the nape.

"Anth—I—"

And he tumbled over, feeling the hot sticky mess painting his hand, their almost touching bellies. Aziraphale arched, his body clamping down, his mouth falling open with high moans slipping.

It was shockingly beautiful, and the man had some pipes on him, it seemed. Good thing no neighbors.

Hardly rolling over the first tremor, his neck aching sweetly where Anthony gripped him to hold on, Crowley thrust up hard through it and finally followed after him. He almost hissed through his pleasure, biting his lip. The shake of Aziraphale's body, the tremor of them. Hell, he could have sworn his vision warbled black before he closed his eyes and dropped his forehead directly to Aziraphale's shoulder so he could absorb everything, everything, everything and give everything back.

And when that painful white heat skittered down to cool, trembling licks across his skin, Anthony turned his face and kissed up Aziraphale's cheeks.

"'m here," he said, unsure why he needed to remind Aziraphale, only that he was here, as in here for the long haul, as in, who in bloody hell could ever take them apart, really. "Angel, holy fuck, beauty...love. I love you. Mm? I love you, I do, I love you."

Another tremor shook the very blissful Aziraphale but this time, it was a weak laughter, not even audible. He turned his head to kiss without aim, missing three times before finding that wonderful mouth.

"I love you too. God. Why haven't we done this much sooner?"

The grip on the red hair had loosened and now both hands were combing fondly through it. The afterglow was almost the best. Cooling down together, still connected and pleasantly exhausted and, in this case, full of love.

"Oh...I think I made you a proper hicky there."

"Yeah?" Anthony's shoulders ached when he lowered his arms, practically collapsing atop Aziraphale. He stretched his neck to show it off to Aziraphale. "A proper one, huh? Low cut shirt it is."

He chuckled as well and tucked his face back in against Aziraphale's shoulder, a favorite resting place, it seemed. He could feel the pounding of their hearts, the ragged rise and fall of their chests that slowly tempered back to normal. As normal as they could be.

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the body on top of him, nuzzling into the damp hair and closing his eyes. This was a perfect moment. Only breaths and the faint rush of the sea that was coming in through the canted window. He was quiet for some moments, just softly caressing the skin underneath his fingers.

"Let's stay here, like this. To hell with the world out there..."

"Was rotten anyhow," Anthony agreed, eyes closed to focus more on the distractingly gentle touch. "I'll gladly stay here with you."

Truly, with the quiet evening settling in, the idea of being here with Aziraphale was far too tempting. He would take the opportunity in an instant, no questions, no further thoughts. He ached for it and when the ache became palpable, he dampened it down by nibbling Aziraphale's ear or nudging his nose into his cheek.

“What a coincidence,” Aziraphale started softly, twirling a strand of hair around a finger. “It took us two incidents in both of your kitchens to land here. Imagine if this had happened back in London...”

There was no chuckle to follow, only a slightly sad smile. If this would have happened back then, the truth would have hurt worse.

“I’m happy with how it turned out in the end. I... I really do love you. However you managed this, but I do.”

Azirpahale sighed and pressed another kiss into the hair, his embrace tightening.

_And I’m so scared to lose you right away. I want to keep you safe, here where I have control over things, right up in my arms. Why haven’t we met earlier? Why did we stumble into this?_

It was those things left unspoken that weighed Azirapahle down, making this comfortable and soft bed feel like they were resting on a needle board, with the slightest wrong move meant to cause instant pain. He tried to push those thoughts away. Just for the moment. When the alarm went off, they would have to face whatever dire fate was waiting there for them. For now, they should just be two lovers, full of endorphins after their first proper love making.

“And you never asked about my name, which is a big plus, really. I’m used to the insults, but the questions...ugh. Tiresome.”

"Yeah? I mean, I can see that." Anthony shifted a little and groaned, his muscles already stiff from laying there too long.

"Listen," he said through another groan, "I have a serious question." Anthony scrubbed his cheek against Aziraphale’s shoulder. "And, yes, I'm working off assumptions here, but, if we're together...? Yeah?" And he grinned softly, like the whole idea lit up a fire inside him again, fueling him for the rest of his life. "What...is up with your name?"

Anthony laughed instantly, shaking his head, and kissed Aziraphale softly as apology for riling him up in the slightest. Azirapahle just looked at him straight on, face unmoving and it made Anthony laugh more.

“Really now? I guess it’s my own fault but _really_? Anthony.”

Aziraphale grumbled but smiled shortly after, being smothered in kisses. He appreciated this attempt of lightheartedness and reveled in the sound of _we’re together_.

“I mentioned it, so I ought to explain. It’s simple, really. My family was religious, and my mother was very ambitious in finding a biblical but also very unusual name. She does say that she found it mentioned somewhere but I never came around to proof of it. In the end I think she just combined things to create a name that translates to ‘for Raphael.’ Bit silly. That’s the whole mystery about it. “

He shrugged and grinned, kissing the tip of Anthony’s nose.

“It’s odd but it’s mine and I hate it when people shorten it. No Azira, no Az, no Zira. That’s the reason I mostly introduce myself with my initials. No one asks what A.Z means. Is your thirst for this now quenched?”

"More than," Anthony whispered and kissed his cheek twice. "Apologies. You fascinating man."

They shifted again and Anthony finally pulled out, flopping onto his side with a sigh, and scrubbed his palms into his eye sockets.

"D'you wanna shower with me?" he asked, sounding weary but clearly still content. "I mean, I'd sooner lick you clean. Haven't had enough to eat today, even for me." And he patted his stomach, giggling to himself. "But dunno if the knees will handle a blow job in the shower, love. Heart is willing, and suppose I'll manage if you really like." It was a half-hearted offer, a joke, but he grinned all the same, biting the tip of his tongue.

Azirapahle held his breath for a moment before he burst into a fit of giggles himself.

“Yes, I want to and I would love to do the other thing as well, but I’m a little sore myself and I don’t think we have much time left...” he sighed at his last statement and rolled to his side to face Anthony, kissing him softly through the little inquisitive hum Anthony offered. “And I’m...leaking. Yes, a shower is promptly needed.”

As he made his attempt to sit up, Aziraphale groaned, feeling his bones crack. They may have the minds of love-sick teenagers, but their bodies had gone ahead and decided to age on them.

“My heart struggles with being willing to move any further. Give me minute. Uh...maybe not, I’m ruining the sheets. Good Lord, Anthony.”

They should have put down a towel. Ah well.

A little more grumbling and shifting and then both middle aged men made it to the actual bathroom. There may not be any more amorous activities, but there was always enough space and time for soft kisses, shared giggles and shampooing wonderful long auburn hair.

Once they were showered, Anthony stepped out and went to fetch them towels, startled by the sound of Aziraphale's alarm, something he'd never heard because they had agreed – or Crowley had more insisted – that they don't use them to get up in the mornings.

"Your phone's ringing!" he called out uselessly, scrubbing out his ear with a towel as he held out a fresh one and brought it back for Aziraphale to dry off. When they were standing back in each other's space, Anthony nudged him affectionately. "Want me to go grab it for you?"

Each tune was piercing right through the conservator’s heart. He had finally suppressed it, there with their silly talk about his name, and in the shower with all the small intimacies. But reality came back with a nagging alarm, making clear that their time together might have come to an end.

Aziraphale swallowed, his throat feeling constricted, almost choked.

“That’s an alarm I’ve set earlier. Means we need to...to hurry up and get to town.” Anthony looked confused and Aziraphale felt something ache in his chest. “When you were downstairs.” He stopped for a moment, walking over to the bed and sitting down, his eyes cast to the ground. “Getting the lube? I received a text from Gabriel, telling me when he’ll be here. I redirected him to The King’s Head pub. Well, I just told him that we’ll meet there and then I never looked at the phone again because...because I’m selfish and I didn’t want this,” he gestured between them, “to stop yet again because of him and of what’s there to come. I wanted to...in case if...I won’t let you down, I promise! But if something would happen, I just couldn’t stand the thought of not—”

Aziraphale couldn’t speak any further. His sight was blurry and the next exhale turned into a sob. It wasn’t like Anthony hadn’t known that Gabriel would come. His call had just been the desperate catalyst for their love-making, but he still felt incredibly bad about not telling Anthony about the other messages. He should probably look at his phone now, but he was too caught up in wringing his poor towel while crying naked on the bed.

Despite previous complaints about knees and backs, Anthony immediately kneeled in front of Aziraphale and took his hands, untangling them from the towel and kissing them.

"It's okay," Anthony whispered, breathing hot air on Aziraphale's skin. "It is. I appreciate...everything. I do. Listen to me, yes?"

He searched Aziraphale's face, trying to consider what he should say next. Of course. No, of course he knew this moment was closing in. That it was here. That it was now. Aziraphale was right, Anthony wasn't blind to it by any stretch. But he hadn't...been...prepared. And he couldn't hide himself away again, run off somewhere, because escaping meant cutting ties with this man, hurting him in some way, and even if he said something like "won't be forever," it would be too damn hard. Plus, Anthony was a sucker against tears.

So, he took a deep breath, and continued.

"We are going to get dressed," Anthony said quietly. "I've a change of bedding in the linen closet." Oh, that stung. The thought that they might be able to return here tonight. Impossible, wasn't it? But he had to pretend. Had to use his imagination and all that. "We'll set that out for later. And I think I have the perfect shirt to show off your handiwork." He smirked, very briefly touching his neck. "Won't Gabriel get a kick out of that, hmm?"

And he laughed. Because he was sure they both needed to hear some laughter just then.

"We'll talk to him. We'll explain what we know. And we'll turn in early together. How's that sound?"

Azirapahle tried to pull himself together, he really did. But that comment about the linens made him sob yet again and he remembered his father scolding him for being such a softy, crying over almost everything. Well, if this wasn’t a reason to cry, nothing would. He joined in the laughter however, still wet and slightly shaking, but it did help.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be delighted by that development. I can always say I threw a chess figure after you that cause it. Alright... I’ll be fine...”

He smiled at the man kneeling before him, the one who’s future he was so uncertain of. And he, loveable, nice and wonderful Anthony was the one comforting Aziraphale who would be able to walk out of all this mess if he wanted to. But he didn’t. They were in this together, more than before now and he would do everything to protect him.

Azirapahle cupped the remarkable cheeks and looked into those soft eyes.

“I love you, Anthony Crowley.”

His voice was steady and serious.

Anthony screwed his eyes shut. Poor soft heart and all. With a little effort, Anthony stood back up and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

"Love you too, Aziraphale. C'mon."

He wriggled his hands and pulled, helping him stand and walking over to the closet to get dressed, picking out something from the scant few options Aziraphale had with him while Anthony did indeed pick out a low v-neck shirt with a ridiculously thin silver scarf to accent it further. He got up on his tiptoes and managed to get out the linens as well, holding them a little longer, closer to his chest, before he set them aside for the bed and turned to see how Aziraphale was making out. He even offered to help him button up, and as he did, spotted his sunglasses on the bed, miraculously unbroken. Just before he slid them on, he winked. His armor, against all this stupid shit in the world.

Similar to Anthony’s sunglasses, Aziraphale was going for his whole usual attire, including the vest and bowtie. It somehow made him feel safer, gave a little hold.

Just after getting properly dressed, he dared to check his phone. Turning up the screen gave them a brief shot of anxiety, but there weren’t too many messages. It only seemed like Gabriel had made it faster than anticipated and was already waiting for them at the pub. Well, the message was only 12 minutes old, nothing too bad and he hadn’t called yet. Azirapahle informed him that they were on the way, giving Anthony the permission to drive like the devil himself was after them.

Which wasn’t too farfetched.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time Aziraphale and Crowley met up with Gabriel at the local pub and figure out who the forger is, right?

The pub was well-attended this evening, but Inspector Gabriel wasn’t too easy to be overlooked. Of course, he took post at a table in the back and it almost seemed like the light overhead was focused on him, illuminating him in a halo of dulled orange light. He had left room for two chairs across from him and when someone tried to take one away, he simply stared them down, smiling but intimidating enough that the person backed away without the chair. Azirapahle went directly to him and offered his hand. His expression remained serious, surprisingly unfriendly, as he was set on business.

“Mr. Gabriel, I’m sorry for the delay.”

And now Gabriel stood, smoothing down his tie and motioning for them to sit.

"It’s loud here," Gabriel started, looking first at Aziraphale before he looked at Crowley and his obviously exposed chest. Was there something in the air today? First Beez. Now Mr. Cro – wait. Was that a hickey? Oh, mother f—

He tore his eyes away and took a breath, nodding at Aziraphale. "So. About these 'fakes.' Why don't we start with the truth, hmm?"

Crowley, sitting as disrespectfully as he could possibly manage, as uncaring and aloof as physically possible, opened his mouth to say something glib before his mind blanked and he realized he didn't know where to start.

It was not the easiest task to do, given the way Anthony had decided to arrange himself on that chair, but Aziraphale got the chance to slightly brush Crowley’s hand with his own, just a sign _of I’m here, we’ll make it through this._

“I thought a public place was the safest for us all. So, the truth. Yes. Truth is that we were presented with three paintings by Eosphoros and two of them were fakes. The third is a real Rubens and before you say anything along the lines of ‘are you sure’ I want to remind you of my impeccable work.”

Right, he was rushing ahead. But sometimes attack was the best defense, right? Maybe he could lead Gabriel away from accusing Anthony of being the forger. Rightfully so, but that wasn’t the point here.

“Anthony checked the official whereabouts of that painting, and it wasn’t seen for two years ever since it’s been taken down for restorations. It’s supposed to sit in Berlin’s vault, according to all the catalogues, but it isn’t. Rubens _Aurora_ was right before our eyes.”

Gabriel's eyebrows went up and then carefully settled back into place, nodding along. He would check into that, but they had their suspicions about the Aurora. It would be a boon to recover it.

"So, Aurora is with Eosphoros. Which will be difficult to recover," Gabriel said, touching the table directly in front of him. "But, honestly? Great! We need more to pin on the bastard. Which brings me to point two."

"Cool," Anthony said, smiling enough to show his teeth. "He can count. Impressive."

"And I've come to a startling conclusion about you." Gabriel leveled his gaze on Anthony, bullying right on past the insult. "And your business. From what our records are telling us, I really don't think you have been completely honest with us, Mr. Crowley."

Anthony sat up, putting his feet flat on the ground.

"No? I sent you my records. I sent you everything. Every purchase. Everything."

"I am curious how you were able to procure some of these remarkable finds." Gabriel grinned at him again, leaning forward. Was it an intimidation tactic? Only if it worked, really. And seeing Anthony's hand fidget on his thigh was a pretty good indicator.

Aziraphale's eyes darted nervously between the two. It was like watching an animal documentary where two males tried to establish ground and dominance, circling each other with growls and snarls. Anthony was the weaker one of them however and Gabriel could practically _smell_ it.

It made the conservator's hairs on his nape stay up.

Aziraphale lay a hand on the fidgeting hand. To hell with subtlety anymore.

"Spit out what you're accusing him of, would you? We don't have much time or nerves for this psychological nonsense."

"Well." Gabriel smiled, knowing and effectually menacing, given his angle on the situation. He didn’t _mean_ to be menacing, but it came with the job. The power dynamics. "It's just that a surprising number of the forgeries come from your sales. Which leads me to believe...."

 _Shit. I knew he knew! Shit! Shit!_ Anthony held Aziraphale's hands tighter, assuming they would be parted and he'd be in handcuffs and dragged away in moments.

"...you are working closely with the forger. Might even know him... intimately?" And Gabriel actually turned his eyes and his accusations onto Aziraphale.

There was a moment of complete silence at the table. A tumbleweed bouncing along in the background would not be completely remiss as the three of them stared. Aziraphale squinted his eyes and looked at Gabriel as if he had compared a Picasso to a Botticelli.

" _Me_?” he finally blurted out with an accusatory gasp. “Are you accusing me of being the forger?"

Aziraphale had been sure that the Eosphoros’ men had told him about Anthony's other job or that they may have discovered it themselves. But being accused to be the forger himself? That was, to say the least utter nonsense. This was a ploy! This was ridiculous! In a word: _what the fuck?_

"Preposterous,” Aziraphale continued, rising to defend himself when, moments before, he had been ready to defend Anthony. It wasn’t a very far leap. “Balderdash!

"Is it?" Gabriel sat back, seemingly pleased to have them caught. "I know conservators are generally trained in the arts. You have a remarkable eye for detail. Better than anyone I have worked with. And, come to find you're intimate with the man who has sold every piece we have recovered? Aziraphale...come on."

"You stupid fucking bastard," Anthony growled through a laugh.

"Beg your pardon? Oh, sorry, let's review your tract record. Working with criminals. Your previous connections with Lucien. So, were you going to sell your latest boytoy out to the Devil of London, or what was your angle this time?"

Anthony slammed his hands on the table and stood, ready to shout, when Gabriel snapped forward.

"Sit. Down," he warned, until they were both seated. "Good. Now. If that's not the case, I would love to hear it. Please."

Even while he tried to digest being called a _Boy_ toy – for heaven's sake! – Aziraphale’s mind was racing. So, they only thought of Anthony as a partner in crime. The distributor. It would still mean he was criminally involved and given his past records; this would not be taken lightly. But it opened a completely new path for them.

The conservator cleared his throat.

"Firstly, _Inspector_. I’ll have you know I am a grown man and certainly not a toy. Secondly. Well...I…it's not exactly as you picture it."

He did not look at the very pissed-off bundle of nerves beside him but squeezed Anthony’s thigh as a sign of _let me handle this_.

"We did not work together until the incident at gallery _Dinah_. All the sales that happened before were nothing but mere coincidence. We did not know each other before."

Which was the truth.

"It's not like it would be any of your concern but our, er, more intimate relationship is fresh as well, so it does not play into this.”

Gabriel looked a little uncomfortable, which pleased Aizraphale, in a way.

“I'm the one you're looking for,” Aziraphale said at last, his voice even and firm. “Anthony did not want to sell me out, so that's his only crime here."

Anthony spun his head so quickly, it could have snapped off, his glasses flying if the frames weren’t so neatly molded to his face.

"Wh...no. N-No, h...." His mouth tripped over itself in its haste and all the words crashed together before Anthony could get out a single cohesive, "He's lying. Obviously he's lying."

Gabriel just sighed and ignored Anthony all together. The man was a flashy small time criminal and now he had finally found out the true mastermind behind it.

"Your craft is impeccable," Gabriel admitted. "You'll return with me to the office to finish up our report? We can try... _try_ and work out a deal that fits both punishment and level of offense, but I think we can do something a little nicer if you agree to cooperate. I really would like for you to work with us. You’ve made great discoveries. Wouldn’t it be better working for the good guys?"

"He's lying," Anthony insisted sharply.

"You can come too," said Gabriel, giving Crowley a plastic, dismissive grin. "We need your statements for aiding and abetting and such."

Aziraphale squeezed a little firmer, still not looking at Anthony.

"I know, I self-adulated enough during the investigation. Can we get back to the cottage first, to get our belongings? You'll come along, of course, and we know that there's no sense in running off."

For the first time, Aziraphale eyed his… Well, his partner. His _lover._ Aziraphale eyed Anthony from the side for a moment before returned to Gabriel. This had been a strange turn of events but with some luck, this might turn out better than anticipated.

It would be Aziraphale’s first offense and all and he could fake Anthony's work enough for less discerning eyes than his own. In the end, they just needed someone to blame and Aziraphale had skills and information that might save them both. Agreeing to work for the bureau would ensure steady work and, honestly, it was a small price to keep Anthony out of prison.

Anthony looked crestfallen, his eyes dropping to where Aziraphale gripped him, and decided to shut his mouth.

"Perfect!" Gabriel clapped his hands. "I think I owe you that much at least." He stood, motioning again for them to do the same. "And don't go driving off without me." He laughed, before he became serious. "I'll find you."

"Right," Anthony snapped and held Aziraphale's hand. They hadn't purchased anything, so he pulled on Aziraphale out of the pub, back to his Bentley, his skin crawling like it was on fire with agitation, just needing to get away from stupid fucking Gabriel and the stupid nice people in the sleepy little village and fucking _everything_.

"Get in," he muttered darkly as he held the door open for Aziraphale.

Anxiety was also starting to crawl up Aziraphale’s spine as he tried to brace himself for what was about to come. He swallowed and did as told, his hands flexing on his thighs as he waited for Anthony to get in.

Now this was a record, wasn't it? They had just confessed their mutual attraction yesterday, confessed their love today and now they were seconds away from their first fight as a couple. Really, someone should call the committee of the Guinness-world records.

"If you promise to not yell at me right now, I can explain."

Anthony sat in the driver's seat, holding the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. He thought his whole face was going to explode, or maybe his entire body would do it. Did he really want to yell? No, not even that. He wanted to fall softly into bed and wake up and find out this was a weird dream. A weird, almost wonderful and then awful one. Sweep it up, try again tomorrow.

But he didn't want to sweep everything away either.

Maybe they could just. Drive. He could probably lose Gabriel. Not probably, he could definitely lose Gabriel. But, running forever? And Gabriel…well. He did say….

Anthony didn't look over because he'd ignite and do something regrettable. Yell. Scream. Cry. Break the other man's heart? Something.

"Okay," he said, his voice flat and low.

Well, it was something. The atmosphere was still charged, strangely so. Azirapahle took a deep breath, his hands ghosting the fabric of his khakis before he gripped his knees just to have something to hold on to.

“It was the most logical thing to do. You must see that.”

Anthony opened his mouth but closed it almost immediately and Aziraphale waited a moment longer to see if might try to argue again. He did not. So, Aziraphale soldiered on.

“However he came to this conclusion, it’s the best way to protect you. Gabriel is more willing to strike a deal with me than you, and given your history with Lucien Eosphoros and the obvious dislike we might have, at the very least both of us will come out of this rather unscathed. I hope.”

He exhaled, shaking slightly. Aziraphale Fell had just turned himself in for a crime he had not committed, just to save the man he had started a romance with a mere 24 hours ago. Another record. Not in his wildest dreams, not even as a teenager, had he thought to be capable of such a reckless action. And here he was, sitting in this car once more on a journey into the very unknown.

The strange thing was that he was more concerned about Anthony’s rage than his own fate. This would come later but right now, Aziraphale almost hoped to be yelled.

“I could…I _couldn’t_ …I. What else should I have done?”

It was strange to see they had switched spots. Aziraphale accused and him not. It was a gamble and they had to see if it would pay off at this point.

But he couldn’t yell. As much as Aziraphale might want and as much as Anthony _thought_ he might want, he couldn’t do it.

"Could run, you know. Out of the country," Crowley said and laughed sadly towards his lap at the suggestion. "I'll take us anywhere, Angel. Anywhere you like."

Azirapahle finally lifted his head and looked at Anthony. “It hasn’t worked too well the first time,” he said softly. “And I don’t think that either of us is really made for a life on the run, even if you desperately try to give that impression.”

There was the faintest smile in his voice now and he reached over. It was hesitant at first, his hand hovering there in the air for a moment, not knowing if it should dare to go further. But he did, moved again, and laid it down on a bouncing knee. Anthony hadn’t probably hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.

“We’ll figure something out, won’t we> Somehow. And most importantly, together.”

Anthony leaned towards him and covered his hand before he started the car and pulled them out of the lot, down the little road with the practical economy car driving right after them, back down the slim winding roads and out to the secluded cottage. Crowley drove the speed limit and they listened to the radio, which was stuck on some Queen marathon for the evening, belting the classics out to them.

"Leave it?" Anthony asked when it looked like Aziraphale was going to change it. It filled the quiet until they were pulled up to the cottage, Gabriel's silver car blocking them in behind him.

"Right," Anthony said, sitting up. "Get our things then, right? Not too bad." He sounded almost peppy and flashed a quick, heartbreaking smile at the conservator.

“Not too bad,” Azirapahle echoed with a crooked smile himself.

They would get their things, get back to London and just figure everything out. Together, yes.

He gave Anthony’s knee another squeeze and leaned in for a brief and chaste kiss. And if Gabriel saw this, well, Aziraphale hoped he enjoyed the show.

He did turn to the inspector though, when they got out of the car. “We’ll be back in a jiffy. I promise you, no funny business, we’re just getting up to fetch our things. Is this alright or do you insist you come in as well?”

It felt like a horrible breach of trust to let Gabriel in, even if he didn’t think he had much say on the matter. He wanted to block the entrance with his body and let Anthony run inside and hide in the safety of his cottage. That was what he was good for, then, right? Protecting Anthony? Protecting this sanctuary of theirs?

"Actually, just a moment, Aziraphale," Gabriel said, motioning him over. "I promise, yes. You can go get your things. I'm not going to do anything to him."

This last part was to Anthony, who stood at the door, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He frowned, waiting there, but Gabriel did another stupid little hand wave that said, _go inside, we'll be in shortly_.

"I'll... I'll just get started?" Anthony said reluctantly, not wanting Aziraphale out of his sight.

"Yes. Promise, it'll be quick," Gabriel assured him.

“I’ll be right there, dearest. Be a love and lay out my things as well.”

It seemed to be reassuring enough, as Anthony did disappear inside, if still reluctantly. Azirapahle turned to the inspector again. He could feel a headache approaching and Gabriel did not make this any better.

“So, what’s so pressing?”

"Listen. What I said earlier. I really can try and cut a deal with you. You agree to cooperate, we can make this basically painless. Come work for me," said Gabriel quietly. "Prove you're on the right side of the law here. And help us get that painting back from Eosphoros."

“If I agree to this, will this include the both of us?”

Aziraphale might sound like a broken record, but this was what he’d been hoping for. If they could prove to be of use, maybe there was a silver lining. A chance to get out of this without prison and being apart. This was a good opportunity to set some things straight right away, just before reaching London. But whoever’s turn it was right now, in that strange game called existence, they had other plans.

Anthony cursed himself quietly and went into the cabin, leaving the door slightly ajar for Aziraphale to follow. He headed for the doors, dragging his feet, still feeling gutted over this. His eyes trailed towards his painting corner, the unfinished piece he’d been working. It would have been the two of them. Would have been an emblem of their...what, their relationship? Yes, actually, was that so desperate to think?

Anthony sighed and placed his hand on the banister to climb up, his feet and head feeling heavy.

And then, suddenly out of nowhere, Aziraphale was grabbed from behind, his mouth immediately covered by a large hand and yanking him off-balance. It was such a shock that he didn’t’ think to fight back, if for a split second, looking wide eyed at Gabriel. He tried to cry out a warning, hopefully towards the house. _Anthony!_ But he was summarily gagged and whomever had grabbed him was squeezing one of Azirahale’s hands tight into the small of his back.

Inspector Gabriel was perhaps harder to take down, so the solution was simple. There was something pressed near his spine just as Aziraphale was grabbed. He could hear the sneer in their voice, which floated just over his shoulder.

“Goodnight Jon,” they whispered right into his ear, followed by something painful, sharp. Electric.

Azirapahle watched in horror as Inspector Gabriel fell to the ground, his body twitching uncontrollably. He was felled like a proper redwood, revealing a slim figure in his shadow, their smile pinched and devilish.

“Good evening Mr. Fell. Nice to see you again. I’m sure you remember Hastur and Ligur here. I think they might have something to tell you.”

And, indeed, they had. Hastur, who stepped around his partner Ligur so that he put himself right in front of the Aziraphale, simply narrowed his eyes before he sucker-punched Aziraphale right in solar plexus. The blow was hard, a bony hand with a vicious arm attached to it, and Aziraphale’s legs simply gave out. Ligur managed to hold him up a second before throwing him to the ground, just right beside the tasered Inspector.

“That’s for last time, ye bastard.” Hastur spat, a wet glob hitting the back of Aziraphale’s head, and turned on a mud-caked heel to make his way into to the cottage. Azirapahle groaned, trying to get up, but there was a foot on his back and shortly after, everything turned dark.

“And that’s for me,” Ligur said softly, even crouching down so Aziraphale could hear in his pathetic state. At least he didn’t spit before he followed his colleague in with hopes of finding Anthony Crowley.

Poor bastard was just wondering what were the easiest clothes to bring with him. Aziraphale's case was already out on the bed, the bed they had meant to make and then mess-up together tonight, if Gabriel hadn’t been such a fucking prick. If Gabriel just hadn’t done just _job_ , if everything was perfect and theirs to take each other as they dreamed of.

Anthony sighed when he heard the staircase creak.

"Up here, love," he called out, not at all concerned if Gabriel heard. He turned to greet him and saw platinum hair, but it wasn't Aziraphale coming up the stairs....


	20. Chapter 20

Gabriel groaned, pushing his knuckles into the pavement, tiny pebbles sticking to his cheek when he peeled himself up off the ground. The annoying little spikes stuck from the cartridge stung on his lower back. That. Fucking. Bastard. Tased him?

It was dark yet, but Gabriel saw the familiar pale figure beside him and pushed himself up all the way, carefully inspecting Aziraphale. He was breathing, thank Christ. But head trauma was generally serious and that looked like it was going to be a nasty bruise on his face there. He looked up, the door open, but no other cars nearby. He had to check. Of course he had to check. How in the hell Beez Prince had found them wasn't the point. And why they went after Anthony Crowley too? Didn't make any sense, unless it was just a grudge? Maybe they had a hit out on him. He half-expected to find a body, almost hoping to catch Beez and company in the act. Get them arrested and put away with hard evidence like that.

Staggering quickly into the cottage, Gabriel found it empty and dark as outside. He started flipping on lights, looking around. Cute place. Totally not the point.

The first thing that was present in the conservator’s mind again was a throbbing pain, all consuming. He groaned as well and rolled over on his back, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Then he finally noticed a name, soft and sweet at the back of his mind, but barreling forwards. Aziraphale sat bolt upright despite the pain and the nausea that came with it.

“Anthony,” he panted. Azirapahle managed to stand and made his way over to the cottage, swaying a little. “ANTHONY?!”

Panic started to rise. Where was Gabriel? How did those gangster find them and what had they done to—he couldn’t think any further. The pain in his skull threatening to knock him off his feet again.

"...yes and I need an ambulance sent to - oh!" Gabriel skidded to a halt in the doorway, nearly colliding with Aziraphale. "You're awake! Come here. Come here, sit down."

Gabriel ushered Aziraphale inside, keeping a firm grip on him with his cell phone smashed up to his ear by his shoulder.

"Mm? No, sorry, I'm still here. I'm assessing him right now," Gabriel explained into the phone. "Hey? Can you tell me your name?"

“What? What kind of—uhg. Aziraphale Fell.”

Right. He had been most likely been hit on the head. Such dumb questions where always asked when one got hit on the head. Some faint memories from his boxing experience told him that.

“Where’s Anthony?”

Aziraphale did not give a damn about who was on the phone. This wasn’t looking good. He tried to stand up again but felt that dizziness rushing back. Better not trying to walk around too much. But the panic was rising more and more, and he looked around frantically.

No, no, no, no. Please, if there’s a God, just let him be here somewhere. _Please_

Ad as much as he hated it, as much as the bile rose in his throat, Gabriel continued. Now he was asking for the day, trying to look into his eyes and have him stick out his tongue, the whole rigamarole.

"We're good," he finally announced to the phone and pulled away to hang up. "Aziraphale, listen to me. We will get in touch with Beez and figure out what happened, but I sincerely suggest we get you to a hospital." He considered for a bit and decided to rip the proverbial band-aid off. "Anthony isn't here."

Something inside shattered. Aziraphale stared at Gabriel in sheer horror until his eyes were stinging, something hot on his cheeks.

"No.... They.... What if they have done something?" Further speculation was too dreadful and Aziraphale dropped his face into his hands, trying to breathe. Just breathing. Not letting anxiety and pain take over. Just breathe.

“We don’t know.”

"W-What did you mean? Just now. What did you mean getting in touch with them?” Aziraphale looked up again, now anger replacing the pain. “They knocked us out. Knocked _you_ out! I saw you go down right in front of me!" But then even the adrenaline wasn’t enough and Aziraphale asked weakly, “How are you? Did you hit your head too?”

"Could be better." Gabriel stood up to his full height again and twisted at the hips. "For all of us, I guess. Do me a favor." And he lifted his jacket to show off the barbs left over in his back. "You know how to remove these?" He watched Aziraphale's face for a second and showed the conservator his hands, giving a brief demonstration. "Press your hands like so and pull it straight out, if you could be so kind."

And then Gabriel had his back to him again, scratching his cheek.

"I get it. You're worried," he said conversationally. "Every right to be, I'm not going to be able to talk you down from being worried. But Prince and their people? Eosphoros? They did this for a reason. And I will do what I can to get your boyfriend back."

It was marginally better than “boy toy.” Aziraphale nodded and did as he was shown, yanking the barbs out as fast as it was possible in his current state. He examined Gabriel’s broad back, his mind racing behind the fog of throbbing headache and pounding adrenaline. Gabriel winced, held the spot where the barbs had been, but it didn’t matter, really. None of it mattered.

Aziraphale knew exactly why they had taken Anthony instead of him. They could just have killed him right there on the spot if that had been their primary goal, but they didn't. There was a bitter hope that they wanted to take their sweet time with him instead, get rid of their bodies somewhere discreet. Maybe Agent Jon Gabriel had been his saving grace after all. Maybe Gabriel had saved Anthony, too. Startled them, somehow. And he wasn’t being dismembered in a van….

Aziraphale shuddered. No, he could not let his mind wander into that void, otherwise he would not be able to operate. And he had to. Had to do anything in his power to get his disaster of a human back.

“Gabriel? Jon. Let's get right at it, shall we?"

\---

Over 58 miles away, Anthony was shoved onto a not very comfortable wooden chair. Beez had gone for the good old linen-sack-over-the-head trick, a staple in kidnappings. Not so much to preserve the anonymity of the place but more for intimidating. Hastur had already quenched his thirst for revenge with a few punches, but Beez had instructions and they were wise enough to follow them.

"Szooo, Mr. Crowley. Glad you could make it. Had a nice little trip, mh? Rejuvenating and all that?" Beez drawled, standing right in front of their victim. “You thought that running off to Brighton would get us off your heels? Pathetic, really. So, you're the little dipshit that not only sold us but made those forgeries, mhh? Impressive."

“Isn’t it?” Anthony was hunched over, breathing hard through the sack. Of course a sack. How fucking predictable, or at least that was what he was telling himself so he didn’t panic and hyperventilate. Wouldn’t be any good anyhow and these sort’ve people punished weakness. Been there, done that. “Some of my best work. So glad...to hear. Your boss likes them.”

He groaned as he shifted until he was sitting back, legs spread, and head resting back. Trying trying trying as always to look like he didn’t give a shit about all of this.

“Why? Did he want to commission something? Maybe Hastur wants something? I know he’s nearby. I can smell ‘im lurking.”

That earned him a grunt and the sound of spitting. Hastur would have loved to show what else he could do besides lurking, but orders had been given. A pity.

“That certain would be an option.” The man who spoke then had a smooth, even voice, deep but wonderfully full. It seemed like no one had heard him approach or he had just been standing in the shadows close to the interrogation the whole time. Either way, Lucien Eosphoros was a great admirer of a good entrance. “If you all would be so kind and wait in front of the door? There’s a dear.”

Beelz looked at him from the side, brows deeply furrowed. “Are you sure? I mean, the other one was the pain in the arse but maybe it isn’t such a good idea to—"

“I can handle him, Prince. Look how well you’ve wrapped him up for me. Don’t you worry. Now, shoo. Shoo.”

They left with another grunt. Better not question the decisions of the boss. Not again.

After the door fell shut, the figure approached Anthony on his stool and loosened the sack, lifting it from the artist’s face. It was a dim lit room, sparsely furnished save for the uncomfortable chair and a few industrial lights overhead. It looked more like a barely used basement room. Anthony gasped at the reveal, quite unable to help himself. He tensed his fingers and slowly pulled his heels in closer to the chair, a subtle way to escape the man’s nearly palpable aura.

In front of Anthony stood a man in a sharp cut black suit, the jacket opened to reveal the deep red shirt underneath. Looked like silk. Lucien Eosphoros was quite tall and even if he was not a mountain of a man, there was a certain menacing aura around him, even with that serene smile on his sharp and handsome face. His hair was slicked back, dark, not a strand out of place. Everything about him was dark, reds and blacks his standard. The eyes, however, were quite striking. A cold, unbearable color, like a frozen lake in the artic.

“So, Mr. Anthony Crowley. I faintly remember you, back when I acquired your two masterpieces....”

"Y...yeah. Yes. Didn't, uh. Didn't leave on...friendly terms." Anthony cleared his throat. "Well, not us personally. I suppose...."

The way Lucien undeniably towered over him, the way the light blocked him, he was downright scary. And he took to his moniker from the trades to heart, it seemed. He really was a handsome devil, but a devil no less.

Anthony needed to find his footing. He adjusted himself, sitting more comfortably, given his circumstances, and cocked a slightly uneasy smile.

"You, uh, like my work then?"

“So much that I paid a very generous amount for two fakes, yes. Without noticing. If it wouldn’t have been for your friend, that Mr. Fell, I would have never known. But here we are. Sad how those close to us can make us fall so easily, isn’t it? Consciously or not...”

He sighed exaggeratedly and started to step around Anthony’s chair, his hand tracing over the back rest and ghosting Anthony’s neck.

“You see Mr. Crowley – Anthony – may I call you Anthony?”

"It would be rude not to."

Again, Anthony flexed his hands, testing the bonds, sweating under the scrutiny. It was difficult to maintain eye contact. They didn't let him keep his fucking sunglasses, but, then again, they were all despicable criminals and probably kicked puppies or something.

\---

Gabriel held the barb up close for a second before he nodded and tossed it. The metal casing clattered on the floor as he put his jacket back on, fumbling with his phone once again and dialing a new number.

"Do you want to get your things from upstairs?" he asked Aziraphale quietly, keeping that perfectly nice, even tone as he offered his hand to help the conservator stand, the phone ringing and ringing in his ear, hoping Prince would pick up.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, slowly coming out of his thoughts. “Yes, I suppose I should get my things. Yes.”

Still weak at the knees, Azirapahle made his way over to the stair, taking step by step with his hand firmly on the banister. The light was still on, their things spread out on the still unmade bed. Azirapahle got closer to it and reached out, not to get his shirts that Anthony had lain out for him but the fresh linens that were waiting there to be used.

The bundle trembled in the conservator’s hands as they started shaking with the effort of not crying out. Azirapahle pressed them to his chest, his knuckles going white, blunt nails digging into his palms while he tried to hold himself together when everything seemed so hopeless and empty.

It took a few moments to steady his breathing again. With the last shaky exhale, he laid the sheets down, packed his things into the suitcase that was also standing there ready, because of course Anthony would be such a gentleman. He packed his things as well. Just in case. Because he would definitely need them.

As he turned around to get away from, the tip of Aziraphale’s shoe collided with something. It was small, barely any weight to it, but the sound drew his attention. He looked down to see the blasted flashy shades on the ground. With only a second’s hesitation, he picked them up, folded them, and put them safely away in his waistcoat’s breast pocket.

He only had to wipe his face briefly as he made it back down, looking up at Gabriel with a grim determination.

“I’m ready. Let’s go.”

Gabriel finished off his message to Mx. Prince as he turned around to face Aziraphale. He clicked off his screen and held out his hand, touched Aziraphale's back, and guided the conservator back out the cottage, closing the door behind them, and took them to his car.

"Obviously, we're headed back to London. It's abundantly clear it's not safe for you, so I hope you won't be too upset if we keep an agent with you. So far, you'll have me, but if this arrangement won't work, I'll talk to my team. And I'm taking you to the nearest hospital."

He said it like he would not allow an argument, the engine turning over, and the car pulling out slowly, carrying them down the road.

There was no argument. Aziraphale only nodded, regretting it right after and looked out the window for most of the ride. There was nothing he could do now and thinking clearly was hard with that throbbing pain persisting from their altercation. All he could do was hope that Anthony was still...out there. Breathing.

\---

“Ah, thank you. I’m sure you know my name. So, Anthony. I’m not known to be a very forgiving man and considering that you have been a nuisance to me now twice in one lifetime? This does not speak well in your favour.”

He was right behind Anthony, Lucien’s fingers coming forth to squeeze Anthony’s shoulders almost companionably.

“But it seems like you’re a child of fortune. Instead of torturously letting you die right now, I can make you an offer. A deal with the Devil, some would say.” Lucien chuckled and squeezed again, harder. He leaned forward, his flawless face so damnably close as he looked at Anthony from the side, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

"Mum always said I had a lucky streak," Anthony whispered, wincing at the slightly firmer pinch of his shoulders. "Not sure where she stands on devil's."

He kept his eyes pinned forward. No use straining to look at Lucien. What was he going to do? Bite his cheek? Sorta fucked up if he did. No, the biggest focus went on breathing and not shaking under his scrutiny. "So. What kind of deal do you have in mind?"

Lucien pulled suddenly back as if he’d burned himself, coming around again to face Anthony head on.

“I know of Fell. Worse, I know he’s uncovered your forgeries and most certainly uncovered my Rubens. You can only imagine what I paid to procure such a piece. The arrangement is simple, Anthony. Quite in your wheelhouse. I’d like you to forge the Aurora in exchange for your life. You get everything you need. We’ll bring you to an excluded area and then you can work. And you’ll be alive.”

Anthony squirmed slightly, frowning over Lucien’s shoulder. It was a simple prospect. Laughably so, in fact.

“We do need to deal with that friend of yours. He has a talented eye, for certain, but I can’t have this little gambit come around a third time. What will people say, hmm? And that irksome Gabriel...but that’s something for Prince. You’re lucky to get a deal with me.”

"Wait, Azir...Mr. Fell isn't a problem," Anthony said quickly and then sat back again, away from Lucien once more. "He's. A dork. Seriously, he's just got a good eye, but he's harmless. Say 'boo,' and the bastard goes running. I don't give a damn what you do to Gabriel." Mostly true, but he found he wasn't completely harmless and had to wonder. Gabriel was the sort who could fend for themselves. "But Fell? I mean, just...h-he doesn't. You don't have to do anything. Don't hurt him and I'll absolutely paint for you. Hell, you want Rubens? Gauguine? Goya? Bet you could get some real money for them."

Anthony was talking faster now, attempting to tempt back, leaning forward, sound excited. If he could eek out a few extra weeks of Lucien’s time? And give Aziraphale a chance to get out? Get somewhere safe? That was worth it.

Lucien stood there and listened with his utmost attention, arms folded in front of his chest and eyes scanning every movement, every muscle working. But it wasn’t really hard to get to the conclusion he had formed.

“That’s very sweet of you, trying to protect him. So, keep in mind, he’ll stay mostly safe if you follow my orders like the good boy you want to be deep inside. He’s anything but harmless in the clutches of the police. He’ll uncover your work in an instant. So, we must find a way to put an end to that. But, if you behave, I will ensure it is a harmless solution to our Mr. Fell problem.”

"What's harmless?" Anthony asked, unable to keep his curiosity in check.

"One doesn't have to lose fingers and toes, for a start. Or hands and feet. Eyeballs...I'm sure he's very fond of keeping those. With his line of work," Lucien answered quietly.

It wasn't ideal. But it was what was currently offered. Anthony flicked his tongue nervously to wet his lips and sank back in his chair again. Shrugged his shoulders even to show what little he could do with current circumstances.

"Right, so...you need a list of supplies or...."


End file.
